#‘I’m trying something new so please do this and this and we’ll see how it goes?’

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

the last bit of us (chapter seven)

Plot: Tyler Owens hasn’t been home in a year. He’s survived all the storm chasing and motel living with his new partners as they try to save lives. But with all the damage they’ve taken from driving high beams first into monster storms, it’s time to pay the piper and bring the truck in for repairs. And the only person who can fix them is the best mechanical engineer he’s ever met. Eleanor Harding, his estranged wife.

Pairing: ex!Tyler Owens x estranged wife!OC, Estranged Wife! OC x Rhett Abbott

Word Count: 1.8k

Trigger Warning: discussion of miscarriage

Playlist Song: every little thing by carly pearce

prologue / one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

I don’t even know how to respond to that, staring blankly at Kate as there’s a loud and angry creak outside. A large banging against the safe room causes the foundation to shudder a little and Kate looks up in fear. 

“We’re perfectly safe,” I find myself saying, shaking my head and turning back to my radio. 

Kate’s head snaps as she looks back at me, her gaze wild. “I would’ve never-,” she clears her throat. I can almost see the need, the energy buzzing in her to get the words out. “I would never have-,”

“Kate, enough,” I say, turning away from her entirely to take at the monitor to check for the radar. 

I press the button to the radio. “Palmer, what’s our status - over.” 

There’s a fuzz in response, no reply. “Palmer, over,” I call again, tapping the bottom against the counter. I huff as I get no response. “Tower must’ve been taken out.” I turn to her, watching as she clenches her fists at her sides. 

“Please Eleanor,” she breathes out, sliding into the chair beside me. “Please. Please let me explain myself.” 

“Kate, there’s nothing to explain,” I say, shaking my head. “You clearly didn’t know alright? So there’s nothing to say. We’re getting divorced as soon as he signs those papers and y'all can go back to your dangerous lives drivin’  headfirst into EF5s.”

She sighs, glancing down at her hands. I can see the gears in her head turning and knowing we’ll be here for a while until the team can dig a way to the door from the damage, I turn to her with a raised brow. 

“I have no right to ask,” she says while shaking her head and scrunching and flexing her fingers. 

“What?” I lean back in the metal backing of the chair, a little annoyed. 

“What happened between the two of you?” Her words echo in my brain, the thoughts racing through me as I try to figure out how in a few days, I’d found myself trapped in a safe room with my husband’s girlfriend. 

“He left,” I shrug, turning back to the monitor and tapping the screens. It’s all a show of busying myself. Kate’s a smart woman, a PhD graduate with a lot of grants for the work she had done in taming tornadoes - or at least that’s what I’d deciphered from her LinkedIn profile and public Facebook page that I’d stalked before falling asleep last night.

“I mean…why did he leave? What happened between the two of you?” she asks, softer this time. “I mean, Boone makes it sound like ya’ll were–,”

“Boone says a lot of shit,” I shut her up, shaking my head. My tone is hard, my bite easy. I turn to look at her, taking in her innocent brown eyes. Her hands are clenched tightly together, clearly uncomfortable. I sigh, reaching under the table and squatting down as my hand pats around behind the cabinet we’d build in to hold all the emergency supplies. 

I can feel her eyes on me as I search, sticking my tongue out in concentration.

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m looking for something,” I say, fingertips brushing the slip of the duct tape and grinning a little. “Got it.” I give a few tugs, hearing the glue of the tape start to give way to my strength until a satisfying tear rips through the room. I pull the bottle out from under the table and hold it up in victory. 

Kate looks at me, brows raised as I slide down to the floor and pat the spot next to me on the makeshift rug. I tug the rest of the duct tape off, taking a little of the Jim Beam label with it. “Whiskey?” she says, slowly sitting down beside me. 

“Bourbon,” I crack the cap and take a swig before passing it to her. Kate gives me a look of caution and I wave the bottle at her. “C’mon, you’re stuck in a storm shelter with your boyfriend’s estranged wife until they can dig us out. Live a little.”

She barely considers the option, taking her own swig with vigor and shuddering a little. “Whoa,” she squeaks, wiping her mouth. 

I laugh a little, taking the bottle back and taking another swig. “Not a whiskey girl?” 

“Don’t really drink too much,” she says with a soft smile.

“Bet he loves that,” I say without really thinking too far with a nod. I look down at the bottle, thumbnail peeling at the label a little. I blink a little, shaking my head. My mind wanders back to her question as a silence falls over us and something else overhead slams down.

“Listen, if it’s too weird to share–,” she starts at the same time as I say “This is weird–,” 

We both look up at each other, tension bursting a little as we both share a soft giggle. I take another sip and offer the glass bottle to her again, letting her take it from my grasp as I sigh. “We were fighting a lot.”

It’s hard to let my mind wander back to that headspace, to those memories before he disappeared and never came back. Lots of screaming, boots slapping down on the kitchen floor, pointing fingers. And there was a lot of silence too, bare feet on eggshells that crackled as we tried to survive.

“Tyler and I weren’t your classic high school sweethearts…we actually hated each other–,” I say, smiling a little as I remember back to our years in our teens. I look up at her and laugh a little at her raised brows as she takes another sip.

“Shocking, I know. But we really did. I was really nerdy– you know, Debate Team, Math League and all that. He was buck wild, chasing girls and then he started bull riding and I couldn’t think he was any more of an idiot. But my dad really loved the rodeo so he used to take me all the time, loves the popcorn that they sell and one night I went to go get a refill for him while Tyler was up because I didn’t care to watch him – but he got thrown off and it looked really awful so I ended up somehow going to check on him, gave him my dad’s popcorn and held his hand while he got a few staples on his scalp…ended up taking me to get ice cream as a thank you,” I say, getting a little lost in the memory. 

I look up at Kate, realizing I’m rambling. She smiles with encouragement. “So he’s always been that reckless,” she asks and hands me the bottle. 

“Oh yeah,” I say, taking another sip. “He’d calmed down a little when we got married but you know, boy can’t sit still even if he knows what’s best for him.”

“How long have ya’ll been married?” she asks as she settles against the framing of the wall. 

“Well, we got married in 2014 during my senior year of college. It was right after he went on his final ride at the rodeo, got–”

“Bucked off a bull so bad he almost got his head stomped in?” Kate recites, knowing the story. I stared up at her, feeling a little pull in my chest that she knew the story. I don’t know why I felt like it was so personal to me. It's the first time in a long while that the skin on my ring finger burns. My face must fall because she frowns at me. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” I force out and look down at my hands, trying to remember why we were talking about his fall. “Yeah, so after that – I think the fall put the fear of God in him, and how close he could shake hands with death. He was real banged up and had to go to the hospital in an ambulance. We’d told the paramedics I was his fiance so they’d let me ride with him and,” I crack a smile, still fond of the memory. 

“My parents used to have this saying when they were scared of something, that you should run toward it to conquer your fears…you know they’d always say ‘If you fear it, chase it’ and we always thought it was such a silly statement but on that ambulance, Tyler was so concussed that instead of fear, he said feel,” I shake my head, looking up at her. 

She goes a little pale, staring at me like she’d seen a ghost. “You alright?” I ask, leaning forward to wave a hand in her face. Kate blinks a little, looking down. “You gonna ralph?” 

“I’m all good,” she says, choking a little on her words. I look at her, unconvinced as she fingers at her meshed vest. “So…he proposes?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Got married at the small church a few weeks after and then had a huge BBQ at my parents. We bought the farmhouse right before I started graduate school. And…things were really good for a while. We would go chasing with my parents a lot, my dad loved him–,” I think of my dad, how sick he was. That I needed to get his meds to him. I clear my throat. 

“I don’t get it,” Kate says as I take a sip of the whiskey. “It sounds like things were…perfect.”

In the distance, I can hear a loud rumble. The team must be starting to dig us out of the debris. “They were…” I sigh. 

“So…what went wrong?” she asks slowly, watching the way my face falls. 

“Well, I got pregnant right around the time that Charlie and I got our first contract,” my voice quiet, hand instinctively going to my stomach. “And then I had,” I cleared my throat. “I miscarried pretty early on from an accident.” The air is sucked from the small space, the rumbling starting to grow closer. 

Kate’s eyes were wide and a little glossy. 

“It’s…it’s alright,” I say, shrugging a little and offering her the bottle for comfort. I’d gotten a little numb to the thought of it at this point. “It happens. And after it happened…it just felt like…it felt like there was this permanent wedge between the two of us that never healed. My therapist told me once that grief is a complicated thing…some people isolate themselves to process their feelings, others will do whatever they can to keep themselves busy. And we got into a real bad fight one night and he left,” I shrug. “Just never came back.” 

“Jesus, Eleanor,” she breathes out, trying to discreetly wipe away a few tears in her eyes. I don’t have a chance to reply, hearing voices shouting out now – calling out to the both of us. 

“We’re in here, we’re okay,” I call out, voice a little rough. We can hear a little shuffling, loud banging as the shouting gets closer to the door. I can hear his voice cutting through the other voices, more frantic than the others. A few pieces of wood scrap against the doorframe before the door is tugged open and Tyler stands there, eyes zeroing on me as we sit up a little on the floor with the half-drunk bottle of whiskey between us. 

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love and appreciation and comments on the story so far! I've mentioned a few times before that I work in education & between classic mental health and the instability of the current administration - having the brain power to write something that is normal an escape can be difficult. Fear not, my beans! I won't disappear - just take a little longer sometimes to post.

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@tw232103, @arieltwvdtohamflash, @magicalfurykoala, @janoskiansecondsofdirection, @fever-daydreamm @buckybarnes-1917 @kim-taehyung-12301995 @accordingtoawallflower-blog @axolotllover225 @tgmreader @smoothdogsgirl @paramedicnerd004 @charmyeol69-blog @tktstomydwnfall @milesdot @arieltwvdtohamflash @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sunmoon-01 @memoriesat30 @tw232103 @primadonnasdream @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @paramedicnerd004 @rachelgreensresume @northernlights2319 @bookchik26 @hunterthecharmer @fantasyfootballchampion @literal-tv-menace

[chloepleasestopdying]

I had an idea for a X-men AU where Chloe was an mutant which caused her a LOT of stress at home. I never decided what kind of mutation she had, only that I wanted it to be a really easy one to see but also I liked the idea of her being able to pass as human if she really wanted too so I kinda pictured her as being able to shift into something like Beast (I also liked that idea because he is blue)

Anyway the bulk of the idea was that Chloe and Max are dating while Max is at college. Max discovers she’s also a mutant but since her powers aren’t physical her parents pressure her into keeping it hidden (for her safety) Chloe slowly starts fall into pro mutant groups (due to all the anti mutant hate plus how David and Joyce keep trying to pressure her into ‘being normal) and eventually ends up joining some kind of recruiting off shoot of the Brotherhood of Mutants.

After a little bit of this on a normal ‘mission’ Chloe pulls up with Max because suddenly Max demanded it. It totally freaks Chloe out because Max knows every single person there, including the higher ups that Chloe’s never seen before.

And whoops, that’s actually Future Max who is currently fucking around with time.

[nanamidays]

Husband Nanami Kento lived up to his reputation as the perfect husband. 

Husband Nanami Kento prides himself on being a good husband. He wants to fulfill all your needs. He'd say that's one of his love languages.

Husband! Kento Nanami, who thinks it's not a big deal when he hands you the deed of the house and it's under your name only. He thinks, what kind of husband would he be if you didn't own your home? 

 Husband! Kento Nanami, who only laughs when you tell him about the reactions your friends and family had when you told them. 

Months later, Husband! Kento Nanami and you get into a petty argument regarding the placement of the new coffee machine. 

You playfully say, “My house, my rules.”

Husband! Kento Nanami just says, Yes, my love. We’ll try it here and see how it goes. 

Husband! Kento Nanami will follow your rules because you are the head of the Nanami household, after all.

Oh my goodness, Ken! I’m just joking. I think you’re right. The coffee maker will have more room over there. 

Plus, my love, you paid for the house, so really you should have the final say,” you tell him with a shy expression. It's something that's been gnawing at you lately.

Husband! Kento Nanami, who reassures you it's YOUR house. As your husband, he knows he has a say, but ultimately, he trusts you with the final decision. Whether it's something small or big.

Husband! Kento Nanami reminds you it's legally yours. So you can do what you please with your house. Did you pay a single cent towards the house? No. Will he use that against you? Never!

Husband! Kento Nanami is appalled when you suggest he add his name under the deed. He reassured you that the house was a gift from him to you.

Husband! Kento Nanami says you being with him is payment enough. On the contrary, he is eternally indebted to you. You make him feel like no one else in this world.

Husband! Kento Nanami makes sure to reassure you that you don't need to feel indebted to him. As your husband, it's his job. He must provide for you. One he would happily work overtime for.

You give, Husband! Kento Nanami a passionate kiss. Before you can pull away, he kisses you again. He looks into your eyes and tells you he loves you. 

Husband! Kento Nanami makes all your worries go away. Because you believe him.

I love you too, my perfect Husband Kento Nanami. Then you kiss his nose and giggle.

Husband! Kento Nanami buys you a vacation home in Malaysia a month later. The deed is under the name Y/N Nanami. He intends to take you next week.

[firewasabeast]

I wanted to write a little something with Chimney, Hen, and Tommy. Also decided to make it a fix-it fic. Enjoy!

Chimney clapped his hands together. “Look at us,” he said, smiling over to Tommy, then back at Hen. “The original gang, back together.”

“The original gang?” Hen questioned, her voice staticky through the mic.

“Yeah! Me, you, Tommy, all on a mission to save the world… or LA, at least.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow and shrugged, otherwise staying quiet.

“Wouldn’t ‘original’ indicate I was there from the beginning?" Hen asked. "I’m not part of your original gang, Chim.”

“Yeah, and technically neither of you are part of mine,” Tommy added.

“Okay, party poopers,” Chimney huffed. “I’m talking about my original gang that I started hanging out with first.”

“Hm,” Tommy hummed. “Wouldn’t that have been Eli?”

Chimney glared. “You know what, I’m not talking to either of you the rest of the time we’re up here.”

Hen rolled her eyes, but reached up to give him a pat on the shoulder. “We’re just messing with you, Chim. We get it.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed. “The 118 was a very different type of gang until you guys came around anyway.”

Chimney perked back up at that. “See! Like I said, the gang is back together.”

“Trying to prevent terrorists from blowing up half the city,” Hen reminded him.

“And trying not to make ourselves targets in the process,” Tommy added.

“Once again, party poo-”

“So,” Hen interrupted, “Tommy. How’s life been lately?”

“Fine,” Tommy replied, immediately suspicious.

Chimney pulled a fresh piece of gum from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “We heard about your little tryst with our lover boy Buckley."

Tommy sighed. “Oh good. I was hoping my private life would be a topic of discussion for you all.”

“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m married to the guy’s sister.”

“Yeah,” Hen said, “and I can’t help it if I sit in an ambulance with a guy who can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

“Ignoring that.” Chimney looked over at Tommy. “What’s going on there?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay." Chimney cleared his throat. “I’ll ask again, and we’ll try the truth this time,” he said, just like he was talking to Jee. “What’s going on there?”

Oh, how Tommy wished they weren’t still ten minutes out from their location. He could use a nice bomb threat as a distraction right now. “Nothing,” he repeated. “There’s nothing going on. I- I thought… it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing.”

“And you’re good with that?” Hen asked.

“I have to be,” Tommy replied honestly. “Evan… Buck made it clear that he didn’t have feelings for me. It was just a one night thing.”

Chimney and Hen shared a look.

“Wait a minute,” Chimney said. “Buck told you he didn’t have feelings for you? Firefighter Evan Buckley of the 118?”

“Yes, Howie. Can we drop it now, please?”

“Absolutely not. We’ve suffered through months of this man moping over you being gone, and you’re going to tell me that he said he didn’t have feelings for you?”

If only helicopters came with parachutes.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Tommy said, his grip a bit tighter on the pitch stick.

“You don’t-” Chimney let out an exasperated sigh. “Have you tried buying flour lately? Sugar? Sticks of butter?”

“Howie, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m pretty sure Buck created a shortage with how much he’s been baking.”

“He’s not wrong,” Hen cut in. “Probably spent half a damn paycheck on eggs alone.”

“I still don’t know what either of you are talking about. Can I fly this bird without distractions, please?”

Chimney waved him off. “You’re doing just fine with the distractions. What we’re talking about is the fact that Buck is, for some reason, lying like an insane person!”

“Yeah, you’ve been the topic of most of his conversations since the breakup,” Hen said. “There was a brief window where he was upset about Eddie leaving, but then it was back to you.”

“Every time he thought about calling or texting you, he’d whip up some new recipe,” Chimney explained. “Most of them weren’t any good. I get triggered by the smell of bananas now.”

“The cinnamon swirl muffins were delicious though,” Hen reminded him.

“Oh, yeah, those were a hit.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is, Buck is an idiot, and if he’s telling you he has no feelings for you, then he’s lying.”

“Or you misunderstood,” Hen added.

“Guys, this is…” Tommy sighed. “This is a lot of information to take in right now. Why don’t we focus-”

“It’s not like we were much help though,” Hen continued. “We did all kind of keep telling him not to call.”

“But that’s because we thought Tommy dumped him.”

“Tommy did dump him.”

“Tommy is right here,” Tommy reminded them.

Chimney crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you not have feelings for him?”

“What?!” Tommy exclaimed. “I never said that.”

“Well?”

“Ugh! O- Of course I have feelings for him. I wouldn’t have gone home with him that night if I didn’t still have feelings for him. I wanted to get back together.”

“He said no?” Hen asked.

“So you guys got the whole rundown on us hooking up, but the rest of the stuff gets left out?”

“I don’t get it, Hen,” Chimney said, turning to face her. “They both care about each other, both want to be together, but they’re both too stubborn and stupid to talk it out.”

“Hey!”

“It’s like a bad movie,” Hen muttered.

Somehow, they were still three minutes out from their location, and Tommy felt like he was going to go insane. “Listen,” he said. “Evan is… I’ve never had someone like him in my life. He’s funny, and smart, and hot, and he cares about people, and he’s just a genuinely good person. That- That’s why it wouldn’t work. He’s too good for me. He deserves better.”

Chimney stared at him, mouth hanging open with a confused expression on his face.

“Oh my God,” Hen said, shaking her head. “Chimney’s right. You’re both stupid.”

“Guys,” Bobby’s voice suddenly echoed over the line. “Did you all forget you’re on an open channel right now?”

A beat of silence, the group glanced at one another, then Tommy responded. “So, everyone could…?”

“Could hear this riveting conversation? Yes.”

Chimney sucked in a breath. “And everyone includes?”

“Well, the entire LAFD, LAPD, then you’ve got the FBI, NSA, and DHS.”

Another, unrecognized voice came over the radio. “The U.S. Coast Guard is here as well.”

“Oh yeah, and the Coast Guard.”

“And me.”

Buck’s voice caught Tommy off guard, and the chopper dropped a few feet before Tommy quickly regained control. He ignored the yelps from Howie and Hen.

“E- Evan, I-”

“They’re right, Tommy,” Buck began, getting right to the point. “Listen, I- I was angry that morning, and I said some things that I didn’t mean, but I- I wasn’t talking about you. You left before I could explain and I’m not… I don’t even know if I could have explained it right then, but, it’s not true that I don’t have feelings for you. I feel everything for you. You… Tommy, i- it scares me just how much you mean to me.”

Tommy didn’t know what to say, so he stayed quiet until both Hen and Chim reached over and smacked him on the arm.

“E- Evan," he stuttered, "I- I really wish we weren’t having this conversation with hundreds of government officials listening in. Do you think my fake mouth static could get me out of this?”

Buck laughed. “I told you, Tommy, it’s not that great.”

Tommy grinned. “When I’m done here, and our shifts are over, I’d… Evan, I’d really like to talk to you in person.”

“What are you doing Saturday?” Buck asked in response. “You free?”

Tommy took in a shaky breath. “I’m free.”

“Then be safe, Tommy, and come back to me.”

Tommy nodded, blinking away tears. “Copy that.”

[sofiatarot]

PAC: Whispers from your future spouse’s soul: a message your heart needs to hear

TIP JAR - FREE READINGS - PAID READINGS

Sometimes we miss someone we've never met

1->2

3->4

Group 1:

My love, I know how hard it’s been for you to keep standing tall when the world feels like it’s crumbling around you. You’ve carried so much responsibility, always striving to maintain control and stability even when chaos surrounds you. I see your strength, and I admire it more than you could ever know. But I want you to know it’s okay to let your guard down with me. You don’t have to be the one holding everything together all the time. I’ll be your steady foundation when the storms come.

You’ve been going through transformations that feel heavy, almost unbearable, but trust me when I say you’re shedding the old to make room for the new. I want you to look at these changes not as endings, but as doors opening to a brighter, more secure future for us. There’s a seed of something beautiful sprouting in the cracks of your old life—trust it. I’ll be here to nurture it with you.

I know there have been moments where you’ve felt like giving up, where your efforts seemed wasted. But don’t let those doubts consume you, my love. All the work you’ve put in, all the pain you’ve endured, it’s leading you somewhere incredible. I see you as a creator, even in moments when you feel lost. Together, we’ll turn those fragments of hope into something solid.

There’s something you’ve been avoiding, a decision or a truth you don’t want to face. I see you hesitate, afraid of what might happen if you choose. But I want you to know that you are stronger than the fear that holds you back. Whatever you decide, I’ll be beside you, ready to catch you if you fall. You don’t have to figure it all out alone.

When your world feels like it’s falling apart, remember this: sometimes destruction is necessary for rebirth. You are rising from the ashes of what once was, becoming the person you’re meant to be. And when you look around and feel lost, know that I’m here, already searching for you, ready to hold you when we finally meet.

Group 2:

My dearest, I feel your frustration and your impatience. You’re caught in a cycle that feels endless, like no matter what you do, things just won’t fall into place. But please, don’t lose hope. You’re not stuck—you’re learning. Every step, even the ones that feel like missteps, is shaping you into the person you’re meant to be. And I want you to know that I’m so proud of how hard you’re trying, even when you can’t see the results.

There’s chaos around you, and I know it feels overwhelming. It’s like you’re juggling too much at once, trying to keep everything balanced, but it’s okay to let some things go. You don’t have to do it all alone. I’m coming, and when I do, I’ll help you carry the weight. Until then, please don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing better than you think.

I sense that you’ve been questioning yourself, your intuition, your path. You’ve doubted your own wisdom, wondering if you’re making the right choices. But trust me when I say that deep down, you already know what’s best for you. You don’t have to second-guess yourself so much. You’re more capable than you realize.

The wheel may look like it's not turning in your favor right now, but this isn’t the end. Life isn’t a straight path; it’s full of twists and turns, and sometimes we have to lose our way to find it again. I believe in you, in your strength to keep going even when the road is unclear. And when we finally meet, I’ll remind you every day of how far you’ve come.

You’re a fighter, my love, even when you feel like you’re losing the battle. Your resilience is one of the many reasons I’m drawn to you. Hold on to that fire inside you, and don’t let the world dim it. I’m here, waiting for the day I get to tell you all this in person, and I promise, it’ll be worth the wait.

(IM SO HAPPY THIS ONE CAME OUT FOR YOU it's one of my fav songs 🤧)

Group 3:

My love, you’ve been feeling like your efforts aren’t paying off, like no matter how hard you try, it’s never enough. But I see your heart, your determination, and I want you to know that it’s not in vain. Every step you take is bringing us closer together, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now. Trust the process, because I already see the beautiful life we’re going to build together.

I know you’ve been hurt before, and it’s made you cautious, maybe even a little guarded. But you’re learning to trust again, to let go of the fears that once held you back. I see you opening up, little by little, and it’s one of the most beautiful things about you. When we meet, I’ll make sure you never have to question my loyalty or my love.

You’ve been moving so quickly, chasing your dreams, your goals, and sometimes forgetting to take a moment to breathe. I admire your drive, but I want you to remember that it’s okay to slow down. Life isn’t a race, and we have all the time in the world to create something amazing together.

You’re surrounded by love, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. Your friends, your family, they see the light in you that I see. Celebrate those connections, because they’re a reflection of the joy you bring to the world. And when I finally step into your life, I know we’ll create a bond just as unbreakable.

You’re on the brink of something incredible, my love. A new chapter is waiting for you, full of opportunities and second chances. Trust yourself, and trust that the universe is guiding us to each other. I can’t wait to meet you and tell you all the things I’ve been holding in my heart.

Group 4:

My dearest, I know how much you’ve been searching for answers, for guidance, for something to hold onto. You’ve been so strong, navigating the challenges life has thrown at you, but I see the exhaustion in your soul. You don’t have to do it all alone anymore. I’ll be here to support you, to guide you, and to remind you of the beauty in your strength.

You’ve been feeling stuck, like no matter what you do, you can’t move forward. But I want you to know that this is just a pause, not an end. Sometimes we need to step back to see the bigger picture, to understand what truly matters. Take this time to rest, to heal, and to prepare for the incredible journey ahead.

You’ve faced heartbreak, betrayal, and disappointment, but you’ve never let it define you. That resilience, that ability to keep going even when it hurts, is one of the things I love most about you. I promise to honor that strength, to never be the source of your pain, but the one who helps you heal.

There’s a part of you that’s afraid to let go of the past, to move on from what’s familiar, even if it no longer serves you. But I see your potential, your ability to rise above it all. Trust me when I say that the future holds so much more for you than you could ever imagine.

When we finally meet, I’ll show you what it means to be truly loved, to feel safe and cherished. I’ll be your partner in every sense of the word, and together, we’ll create a life filled with love, passion, and endless possibilities. Until then, know that I’m already loving you from afar, cheering you on as you take each step closer to me.

xoxo🌙

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday. 

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This. 

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses��it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either. 

Not that you could ever tire of him. 

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway. 

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck. 

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling. 

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator. 

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight. 

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there. 

A warning. 

A tease. 

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you. 

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make. 

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two. 

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together. 

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something. 

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you. 

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you. 

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

 “Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. 

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.  

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.  

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”  

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.  

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”  

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.  

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.  

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.  

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical. 

Yeah. 

Practical.  

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot. 

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”  

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.  

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point? 

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish. 

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. 

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”  

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.  

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”  

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.  

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.  

Except there’s one problem: his arm.  

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.  

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.  

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.  

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”  

“No.”  

“What do you mean no?”  

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”  

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here. 

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.  

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”  

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”  

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.  

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”  

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t. 

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had. 

After Tuesday. 

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you. 

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked. 

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him. 

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

author’s note thank you to this anon!! this fic deviates from canon. timeline is s2 when rafe is at his most unhinged.

» masterlist

disclaimer there is no explicit s/xual assault scene in this story, but it is referenced and the trauma that comes with surviving it is explored. it is committed by an original character. when writing this, i pulled from personal experience, so please be mindful that if you comment, do not engage in any victim-blaming as it is triggering to me and others.

·········

In a single harrowing moment, you’ve learned that there’s truth to the expression that the enemy of your enemy can be your friend.

Rafe looks all too comfortable holding a gun. The rage coursing through you is deafening, persuading you that the person he’s pointing it at deserves to die.

And then, you utter the words rising in your throat.

“Do it.”

╰┈➤ two days earlier

Your shifts at the country club are a repetitive motion of driving over the golf course’s hills, handing the island’s wealthiest people their overpriced drinks, and accepting their money with a fake smile.

The job was always a predictable bore. Until a week ago, when you started seeing a familiar face.

The moment Rafe’s eyes landed on you and he realized that one of the Pogues he revels in berating is the new cart girl, his lips twitched into a smirk.

Every time you see him, he does the same thing. He orders a beer and says here you go, sweetheart when he tips you.

It’s always a fifty. No other club member gives you nearly this much. It’s like he loves reminding you that this type of money is pocket change to him.

Every time you serve him, you subdue your glare and take the crisp bill that sits between his fingers, wondering why even though the man is an arrogant asshole, you can’t stop staring at him.

You feel weak for not hating him all the way. You can’t help that over the years of your tense, sporadic interactions, a part of you has always wondered if he feels the same pull of attraction that you do.

You have to remind yourself of who he is. A man committed to letting everyone know how much better he thinks he is because he was lucky enough to be born into money. He’s heartless. And you can’t wait for the day that you finally rid yourself of this fixation you have for him.

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon at the end of a long shift and you’re parked by one of the paved pathways on the course, recording your last transaction in your logbook.

You hear the familiar whirring of a cart passing by. It stops. You don’t think much of it until you hear his voice.

“We’ll take two beers,” he calls from behind the steering wheel. You look up to see him. Rafe.

“I’m obviously off duty,” you reply curtly, looking between him and his friend.

“What, so you can write in your diary, but you can’t give us some drinks?” he calls.

“It’s a logbook,” you reply coldly. “It’s called having–”

You flatten your lips together, trying to control yourself.

“Having…?” he challenges. The mocking tone of his voice is what makes you snap.

“A job,” you reply. “Not everyone can live off of daddy’s money.”

Rafe huffs a laugh, a wisp of amusement flashing on his face.

“Careful, Pogue,” he says. “What’ll your boss say if he knows that’s how you’re talking to me?”

“I’m off the clock, Kook,” you say the label with the same vitriol. “I can talk however I want.”

You close your book and start up your cart before he can irritate you any more. Even though there’s something aggravatingly magnetic about him, you refuse to allow him to taunt you any longer.

·········

You meet up with your friends on the beach that evening, zoning out as the three of them chatter around you, passing a joint you brought.

You stare ahead at the soft waves under the setting sun, thinking of Rafe’s cold stare, thinking of the smirk he seems to always have etched on his face reserved especially for you, thinking of how you wish your body would catch up with your mind because how can you dislike somebody this much but also be so attracted to them?

“Who’s your plug?” JJ asks, seemingly impressed. He pulls you out of your daze as he passes you the joint. Smoke curls out of the end of it, twisting in the wind.

“That guy, Porter,” you say flatly. You take a puff, thinking back to the shaggy-haired Kook who approached you at a party on the north side of the island the other night, offering you half the price on your first buy.

He also tried to convince you to try something harder, but you told him you’re sticking to pot. You weren’t about to get hooked on coke, especially not because a drug-dealing Kook wants to take more of your money.

You continue to stare ahead, passing the joint along.

“What a trust fund kid name,” JJ laughs. “Fuckin’ Porter.”

Your friends chuckle around you, but you continue to stare ahead.

“Hard day at the office?” he says in response to your absentmindedness. You meet JJ’s gaze, shaking your head as if to dismiss your own thoughts.

“Rafe is such an asshole,” you say.

“What’d he do this time?” Pope asks. Your friends await your response, already well aware of your history with the bullshit you’ve ever had to deal with at work lately.

“He said something about ratting me out to my boss for talking back to him,” you reply. You scoff, getting mad all over again. You need to pull yourself out of this funk. “Whatever. All I do is complain about him. He’s not worth it. This is the last time you’ll ever hear me talk about him. I mean it.”

You make an effort to join in your friends’ conversations, feeling guilty that you’re so spaced out. With parents who never give you much attention at all, the guys surrounding you are your family. Your brothers. They deserve better than to hear you ramble on about Rafe.

Rafe’s eyes travel over the silhouettes sitting along the darkening shoreline when he arrives at the beach with his friends.

It’s the sound of his pick-up truck’s door shutting that gets your attention. You look over your shoulder. Then, you glance away, indifference on your face.

It pisses him off. Rafe has always craved what he can’t have. Power. Self-control. You. Every time he talks to you, you act like he’s such a bother, a sharp thorn in your side.

You get under his skin. And he’s never wanted a girl this bad. A goddamn Pogue of all people. Something about you lures him in. It makes him want to see what really lies behind the irritation that burns in your eyes every time he speaks to you.

He needs to crack your armor. And he has always loved a challenge.

As the beach populates, the division between the Kooks and the Pogues is clear, as if an invisible line is drawn in the sand. He stays on his side, you stay on yours.

When night falls, you and your friends have all smoked through the entire joint, and you’re a bit buzzed but not nearly as high as you’d like to be.

You spot Porter by the shoreline, drinking with his friends, and dust the sand off your knees when you stand up.

“I’m gonna go buy some more,” you say to your friends.

“Going into enemy territory?” JJ asks.

“It’s nothing new to me,” you laugh. “I work in enemy territory, remember?”

“You need company? Or cash?” John B asks.

“All good. My treat,” you say. “I’m loaded with tips.”

You don’t mention that a majority of the money in your pocket is from Rafe.

As you approach the boisterous group, you cross your arms and feign confidence. In reality, being around these types has always put you on edge.

Kooks give off a sense of invincibility, almost impunity, like predators at the top of the food chain, perpetually safe from harm and always on the brink of inflicting it.

You notice Rafe’s stare on you from his place in the large group and your stomach twists. Your eyes flit off of him and you wonder how it’s possible to wish someone would stay away but also so deeply crave they’d come closer.

Truthfully, within the tangled way he makes you feel, you’re kind of scared of Rafe, too. He’s reckless and unpredictable. And yet, that side of him excites you. There’s a complexity to him that has an inescapable effect on you.

“You holding?” you ask Porter once you approach him. He’s one of the few Kooks you don’t mind so much. He doesn’t have the cold air of arrogance that you’re so used to.

“It’s good shit, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. “How much you want?”

You leaf through the bills in your hand.

“Just a joint,” you say. The waves crash behind you, almost drowning your voice out. You make the exchange and push through the crowd, eager to get back to your friends.

You thought you managed to get away without any complications, but two words stop you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Rafe, overwhelming heat rushing through you as he closes the distance between you, towering over you as the breeze brushes his hair over his forehead.

“What, ‘cause I’m on your side of the beach?” you mutter. “Grow up.”

Rafe smirks. He gets such a kick out of fucking with the Pogues. Especially you.

“Is that what you’re spending my tips on?” he asks, eyes darting down to the joint in your hand.

“Yeah,” you answer. “You can tell your father I say thanks.”

Rafe’s mouth curls into a bigger smile. When he looks at you like that, like he wants to be around you, you wonder if he secretly enjoys your company.

“How long you been buying from him?” Rafe asks.

“Why?” you say. The way you glare at him makes every muscle in his body tense. He’d be an idiot to deny how attracted he is to you. “You gonna tell my boss?”

“It was a fucking joke,” he mutters with a laugh. “You Pogues all have sticks up your asses, I swear.”

You grit your teeth. He’s clearly pleased when he riles you up like this. You don’t understand how somebody could be so spiteful.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you say.

Silence settles between you, the chattering of people on either side of the beach intertwined in the air, an overlap of worlds far apart. He reminds himself that he has something important to ask you.

“Did he offer you anything else?” he says. You’ve already heard the gossip about how Rafe’s selling coke now. He must want to offer you a better price.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” you reply. Rafe scoffs, his tongue jutting under his cheek as he takes you in.

“I’d never sell to you.”

You huff a flat chuckle. You’re tired of his juvenile obsession with the class divide that sits between you.

“So, I’m good enough to serve you drinks, but not good enough to buy your drugs?”

You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when his face hardens with anger. For a second, you worry that you’re just as spiteful as he is, that you’re no better than him.

Rafe scoffs. He’s seen what coke does to people. To himself. He refuses to see it happen to you. But of course you expect the worst of him. Like everyone else does.

“Did he offer you anything else or not?” Rafe repeats with a note of irritation.

“Why?” you sputter.

“I need to know if he’s trying to steal from me.”

Rafe refuses to be in competition with anyone. Other Kooks can sell weed all they want, but coke is his territory, and if he has to claim his territory, so be it. He’s heard rumblings that Porter’s expanded his offerings now. And Rafe isn’t going to let him fuck him over.

“He did,” you finally answer. “Coke. He said it’s the purest on the island.”

He only nods tersely, lips twisting in frustration, before he turns around and storms away from you. So, that’s all he wanted from you. Information.

“You’re welcome,” you half-shout. Curiosity pulls you in as your eyes follow him into the crowd. Sure enough, Rafe pushes Porter to the ground, shouting indistinctly, earning jeers from the crowd.

It’s typical. Nearly every time you see Rafe out socially, he’s yelling and fighting someone. You walk back to your friends, hoping you can shake off the feeling he left you with.

·········

The only thing getting you through your shift the next day is that tomorrow is a holiday. The night of the Fourth of July is an escape from the stresses of your life, an excuse to get wasted with your friends under the fireworks and let yourself drift off into oblivion.

After you clock out, you’re pacing through the country club’s bar when you hear your name called from the patio. You look to see Porter sitting at a table with a couple of friends, his smile wide.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he says when you approach.

“Yeah, I’m a server on the course,” you explain. You almost expect him to ignorantly ask for a drink, but have to remind yourself that he’s not like Rafe.

“How is it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Come on, we won’t tell,” Porter chuckles. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“Only sometimes,” you reply with a laugh. “Depends on the day. And on the person I’m dealing with.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He pulls out his phone, punching in the password. “I meant to tell you last night that you should have my number. You know, for when you need to stock up.”

You take his phone, cluing in that he’s making himself more accessible to you for the next time you need to buy from him. As you text yourself his name, one of the men at the table motions to Porter.

“Bro,” his friend says, gaze trained ahead. Porter looks past you to the bar and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Can’t escape him,” he sighs.

You follow his eyeline to spot Rafe at the bar with a friend, dark liquor sitting in the glass he’s holding.

“Not a fan?” you ask.

“Is anyone?” Porter laughs. “He’s a nutcase.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” his friend murmurs.

“Yeah, he’ll kill you,” the other guy laughs.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Porter replies.

Your eyes linger on Rafe a second longer than they need to. Your curiosity for why he’s the way he is is like a flame that won’t burn out. He has everything he could possibly want. Why is he so mean?

“Yeah,” is all you can say. You turn around again and give Porter his phone back.

“Oh, there’s a party at my beach house tomorrow night. My neighbor does this crazy fireworks thing every year,” he tells you. “I’ll text you the address.”

You nod appreciatively, glad that at least some of the rich people you deal with don’t buy into the idea that you’re beneath them.

·········

It’s nearing nine p.m. when you make it to the beach house the next night. The guys are rambling on behind you as you step inside the massive, humid house, filled with chattering people and loud music.

“Where are your car keys?” Pope asks.

“Right here,” JJ says, jingling them in front of his face. “Do I need to show you every five minutes?”

“I’ll just take them,” Pope says, grabbing them and stuffing them in his pocket. “You can’t be trusted.”

“It was one time,” JJ says. You laugh as you think of last weekend when he’d lost his car keys at a party in the Cut.

“Yeah, and we had to search the sand for, like half an hour,” you remind him.

“You know what I’m not hearing?” JJ says. “A thank you for driving all the time.”

“Remind me, who actually drove last time?” John B asks. “And who was hurling in the backseat?”

JJ scratches the back of his neck.

“I’m a man of honor,” he says. “I’m not not going to chug when I’m told to chug.” His eyes fix on something across the room. “Speaking of…”

He heads towards the keg and you and Pope share a disapproving shake of your heads. You follow your friends, grabbing a solo cup and sipping on beer.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Porter: You here? Want to buy?

You’ve already smoked through the joint you bought two nights ago and quickly reply: yes.

He texts: come upstairs.

“I’ll be right back,” you quickly tell your friends before you push through the crowd.

You duck under the string tied across the bottom of staircase, a sign that warns partygoers that it’s off limits hanging in the middle. One door is open in the upstairs hallway. You see Porter sitting on a bed, rolling a joint on a book that’s sitting in his lap.

“Hey. Got a fresh one for you,” he says.

“Thanks.” You dig into your pocket. “Same price?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “It’ll take a while. You can come in and chill.”

You sit at his desk close to the door, talking as he packs the thin white paper.

When he stands up, instead of giving the joint to you, he darts across the room abruptly. Your brows knit in confusion when he shuts the door, the loud music reduced to muffles now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, fear twisting your heart in a vise.

He must have read things wrong.

You assume he’ll stop when you tell him no.

He doesn’t.

·········

You fall to the hard floor. You grip the edge of the bed, hardly any light spilling into the room from the hallway as you blink rapidly to gain your bearings.

A loud slam was what woke you up. You don’t remember falling asleep. You don’t even know where you are.

Two shadowy figures stand on the other side of the room. One roughly pushes the other to the floor. You stay still, peeking over the bed. Your body is trembling with pain and you don’t know why.

“Do you think I’m joking?” a man spits.

You know that voice. It’s Rafe.

“Dude, relax,“ the man on the floor says.

You might be sick. It’s Porter on the floor, whimpering like an idiot. You remember why your body is aching now.

He hurt you. He hurt you and you retreated into your mind and you fell unconscious. A cold swirl of anger and disgust and sadness twists your stomach into a knot.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking way,” Rafe shouts. “Where’s your stash?”

“In the desk,” Porter says quietly. “Just take it. I’ll stick to selling weed, okay? You have my word.”

You watch from the floor, Rafe’s broad figure leaning to pull open drawers and shove items off the desk, objects clattering on the floor in the dark. They don’t know you’re here.

Consciousness slowly grips you. Rafe confronted him about selling coke. He told him to stop. And Porter didn’t listen.

Your eyes flood with hot tears. He didn’t listen to you, either.

You just want to leave. To get out of this horrifying room. To figure out how to put yourself back together after surviving one of the worst ways a person can break another.

Loud fireworks abruptly crack in the sky, startling you, shining light in through the window. And that’s when you see it. Porter is by the other side of the bed, still on the floor, and in his raised hand, something is gleaming.

A gun.

“Rafe!” Your throat is dry, sore from the way you’d screamed.

He suddenly turns towards you, confusedly finding your face across the room. Then, his gaze snaps down at Porter. He notices the gun. And he lunges.

You stand on shaky knees as you watch Rafe land vicious punches, every blow making Porter groan.

“Gonna pull a gun when my back is turned, pussy?” Rafe bellows. “Really?”

You round the bed, staring in horror, your mind still in fragmented shambles. You’d told Porter to stop so many times and every strike of Rafe’s knuckles against his jaw gives you a jolt of satisfaction, a desire for him to suffer more.

He was never a nice guy. He’s just like all of them. A predator.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, heavily breathing as fireworks continue their pops and sizzles over the beach.

The gun is in his hand now. His heart is thrumming, his blood boiling hot. He could’ve died. If you didn’t call his name, he could’ve lost his life.

Rafe’s steady and firm, holding the weapon still, a sharp contrast to how hard you’re shaking.

“Do it,” you say. Rafe’s eyes finds yours, his lips parted, blood splattered on his face. It’s not his. Porter didn’t land any punches. Rafe beat him that badly.

“What?” Porter cries. “Are you insane?”

He’s staring up at both of you through wide eyes as the barrel of the gun remains directed at him. You imagine how terrifying you must look to him, standing over him in the dim room with his pathetic life in your hands.

“Me?” you mutter. Hatred courses through your veins when you glare at him as he lies on his side, bloodied and weak.

The power has shifted into your hands. He was the one looking down at you earlier, hurting you. And now that your body is yours again, you don’t hesitate to kick him in the stomach.

He grunts when you make contact, his body curling forward.

Rafe watches, rendered speechless. He thought he’d seen you angry before. He hasn’t. This is new. This is pure rage. This is a level of wrath he didn’t know you were capable of.

Even through the darkness, Rafe can see that your eyes are shiny with tears when you turn your head to look at him again.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” you snap, your words dripping with agony and rage. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Rafe is powerless against the angry, malevolent instinct that’s guided him all his life. He doesn’t think.

The blow of the gun cuts through the air.

Your breath catches.

And he’s just a body. Lifeless on the floor. Gone.

You look up at Rafe. Your chests are heaving, broken and shaky breaths spilling out of your mouths. The colors lighting up the night sky tint your tear-streaked face. He’s never seen agony personified. He has now.

You glance down at Porter again. His mouth is agape. His eyes are shut. Forever. Forever.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper. Hot tears fall over your cheeks so quickly that you fear they’ll never stop. The adrenaline escapes you like water spinning down a drain, replaced with a bottomless dread.

Rafe realizes he’s still pointing the gun. He lowers his arm, his palm sweating against the grip. He had to do it. He had to. He didn’t know that taking a life would feel this good. He doesn’t feel a shred of regret or remorse. For once, he has real power.

But then he watches the way you sink down to the floor.

“What did we…” you whisper, words rushed. “What did we do? Rafe, what did we do?”

There’s a dead body next to you. Cold permeates your bones. You know it’s the type of chill that will never leave you.

Rafe kneels in front of you. The gun hits the floor with a heavy thump. The air smells like gunpowder, fried and smoking. He’s trying to meet your eyes, but your gaze is skittering around as you sit, crumpled and trembling.

“Hey,” he says clearly.

You’re staring at the ground, your breaths shallow.

“Hey,” he repeats louder. Finally, you look at him. “It was self-defense.”

You nod weakly, processing how within a second, you’ve tangled yourselves together into a knot that you can never unravel. Rafe pulled the trigger, but you told him to. And you’re sure you would’ve done it yourself if Rafe didn’t. You’re murderers.

Rafe’s hand is an inch away from you, almost putting it on yours, almost touching someone with tenderness instead of anger for once. You saved his life. You loathe him, but you saved his life, reacting in a split second.

“Why were you even up here?” he asks.

“Just be glad I was,” you say, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

If you weren’t so shellshocked, you’d laugh. You never expected Rafe to have manners, and you never expected that if he did, it’d be a show of gratitude for helping him kill somebody.

Nausea pools in your gut at the reminder of why you were so angry. Did Porter plan it? Did he always have his sights set on you, like a vulture circling the sky, ready to attack?

What happened earlier tonight flashes through your mind. He deserved to die. He did something unforgivable. He said things about how girls always do this, they always tease but never give it up.

You didn’t just save Rafe. You saved all the girls who were fated to cross that monster’s path. You pushed a soul to its death, but it was one not worthy of life.

Rafe stares at you as you blink rapidly, your mind clearly racing.

“He rip you off or something?” he asks, at a loss for why you’d encourage him to pull the trigger.

Of course Rafe thinks it’s about money. That’s all that matters to him.

“Yeah,” you lie, voice cracking. You can’t tell him. You can’t relive it. Especially with someone who you know is cold-blooded. Someone who might blame you for coming up to this bedroom in the first place.

Tease. Porter called you a tease while you pleaded for him to stop. You drop your head in your hands, chest stuttering with your breathy cries, remembering how he’d hurt you.

Rafe stares at you, confused, wondering how you could be so angry and vengeful and ruthless, just to regret it a second after the bullet left the chamber.

“We had to do it,” he states.

“I know,” you tell him. You wipe your cheeks with your palms, well aware that he could never understand why you’re really crying. “We’ll just tell the truth.”

He shakes his head at you.

“Tell who the truth?” Rafe mutters, his stare hard. “We’re not telling anybody.”

Your breath shakes. He wants to hide this. To try to get away with it.

“What if someone heard the gunshot?” you murmur.

“Everyone’s outside,” he says. “And those stupid fireworks are so fucking loud. Nobody could tell the difference.”

You wipe your face again, considering his words. Your phone is buzzing in your pocket. Someone’s calling you. Surely one of your friends. Why didn’t you just tell them where you were going? Why didn’t you just have one of them come upstairs with you?

Impatience quickly rises in Rafe while you stay silent.

“I almost knocked him out the other night,” he says. “In front of everyone. You think backing me up would be enough for anyone to believe I was protecting myself?”

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. Rafe has a reputation for being violent. Porter put up a front that he was a nice guy. His friends even said right in front of you that Rafe would kill him. Who’d believe that Porter actually pointed a gun first?

Besides, if you vouched for him, who’s to say they’d trust you? They could spin it and say Rafe paid off a Pogue to lie for him.

“And then the cops would dig and find out it was over coke,” Rafe sputters. “It’d be a fucking mess. We’re not telling anybody.”

He’s right. Confessing wouldn’t do you any good, either. It could go sideways and you could never afford a good lawyer.

Nobody deserves to be punished for taking down the evil, lifeless man lying on the floor. Not you. Not even Rafe. You won’t take the risk.

You gaze into Rafe’s eyes, finding comfort in the striking blue hue for the first time, feeling a newfound sense of loyalty to him.

He gave you vengeance in a world that would never punish the man who hurt you. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you whisper. “What do we do now?”

“We get rid of the body.”

next >

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[moonstruckme]

my queen of comfort 🙇🏻‍♀️

can i pls request a marauders with reader who has seasonal depression and it gets bad especially during the winters??? thank u 🫶

Thanks for being patient with me lovely <3

cw: depression, no harmful thoughts but general apathy and lethargy

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 995 words

It’s warm in your bed. Almost too warm. The backs of your knees and the place where your arm is folded against your side feel uncomfortably heated. But Sirius kisses the back of your neck when he wakes, and you wouldn’t move for anything. 

“Let’s go to the farmer’s market today,” he says, voice sticky with sleep.

You look out the crack in the curtains covering your bedroom window. “It’s so cold out, though.” 

“So we’ll bundle up. You can put your hands in my pockets if you don’t feel like wearing your gloves.” His nose bumps your nape as he kisses you again. “It’ll be very romantic. The woman who sells the apple tarts said she’d be back this week, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” 

“You won’t let me get my girl a sweet? I thought you really liked those.” 

“I do, just.” Just. It feels like it’s all you say lately, like all you do is make excuses. Just, just, just. “It doesn’t seem worth it. It’s really gross outside.” 

Sirius’ arm comes around your waist. He doesn’t contradict you. It’s dreary and gray out your window, drizzling rain that bites like ice when it lands on your skin. You’d rather lose track of the day lying here with him, let it slip through your fingers and not think very hard about what it means that you have. Sirius’ fingers playing with yours make this all the more appealing. 

“What if we went to the cinema?” he asks. “That comedy film is showing this weekend.” 

“Didn’t James want to see that one?” 

“Think so, yeah.” 

“You should take him.” 

“I don’t want to take James.” Your joined hands press to your hip, a gentle request for you to turn around. But you don’t want to look at him, and Sirius doesn’t make you. He squeezes your fingers instead. “I want to take you.” 

That’s the important bit. Sirius doesn’t care about the farmer’s market, or even really about the film. You know he only wants you to get up, to go anywhere and do anything at all, and you feel like shit for resisting him. You shouldn’t, either. You know how sadness can sink its talons in the longer it holds you. 

“I’m sorry. Yeah, let’s go.” 

“Don’t be sorry, lovely girl,” he chides fondly. “We don’t have to go if you won’t enjoy it. What do you want to do?” 

You try to muster something for him, you really do, but after a handful of hapless moments you can only be honest. 

“I don’t think I want anything.” 

“That’s okay.” Sirius drops a kiss on your shoulder. “Hey, could you look at me? Please?” 

You roll over, miserable and made more miserable by the aching tenderness in your boyfriend’s expression. This new spot on the bed is colder than where you’d been, but Sirius’ knee bumps against yours, his palm slipping beneath your head on the pillow. He doesn’t hesitate to touch you. Doesn't treat you like you’re breakable or wrong or contagious. His hand flattens under your cheek and warms your skin like he can bleed goodness into you. 

“It’s okay,” he says again, softly. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sirius tsks. “Now what for?” 

“Making things so hard,” you murmur. You’re trying not to disturb his palm with your mouth movements. 

“Sweetheart, nothing’s hard when I’m with you. I just want to be with you. We can just sit here and talk all day if you want.” 

“I don’t think I’m very nice to talk to right now.” 

“What does that matter? I know I’m awful to talk to half the time. We can be morbid bellyachers together.” 

With some effort, you lift one corner of your mouth. Sirius kisses it rewardingly. 

“You are a delight to talk to, by the way. Always.” 

“A delight?” you whisper. 

“Mhm.” 

There’s a piece of his hair that’s arching over his face, all sprightly and mussed about by the pillowcase. You’re close enough that it moves when you breathe. You blow, and it tickles Sirius’ nose. He smiles. 

“I don’t think I want to talk,” you admit. 

“That’s okay.” 

“I know I’m not fun to be around right now. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make everything miserable.” You look at the dip of his cupid’s bow rather than his eyes. “I love you.” 

It feels important to say. Even when you’re dropping it in his lap awkwardly, like a plea. 

Sirius tilts his head until his eyes meet yours. Dark lashes and silver pools, like moonlight glancing off water. “I love you,” he says, so sincere it burns. “I have another idea.” 

You hum. 

“We watch a film here instead. Or a show, whatever. But first, you tell me how to make french toast so we can have some for breakfast.” 

“You don’t want me to make it?” You don’t want to, but you’d try for him. 

“I want to do something for you.” He kisses you, soft and sweet. He tastes like sleep. “But you’re allowed to help if you like.” 

Allowed amuses you, though you don’t smile. Sirius’ eyes glint like he can tell just the same. 

“You do lots of things for me,” you say. 

“Good. I’d like to continue adding to the tally; it’s how I keep my edge.” 

You look at Sirius, thinking of how much you must love him for it to ache this deeply. Thinking of how he loves you, and how unfair it seems. He keeps doing it even when you give him every reason not to. 

Sirius can tell you’ve slipped away. He strokes his thumb over your cheek. “So, what do you say, gorgeous?” 

You don’t really want to eat french toast. You think you’d swallow battery acid if he made it for you, though. “It sounds nice.” 

“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay, let’s go then, yeah? I’m starving.” 

You give Sirius your hands when he reaches for them, and you let him pull you up.

[vicariousresearcher]

Neighbour!141 and how they get your attention.

Neighbour!Price who is constantly offering you help. Sees some furniture boxes at your door and is offering to put it together for you. No? Well surely you need some tools at least, make it all easier. No no he doesn’t mind truly. He doesn’t want you trying to fix everything up with just an allen key now does he?

Shovels your side walk, up to your door even. When you come to him the next day all apologetic and saying that you were just about to do it, seriously he didn’t need to. He just brushes you off saying that ‘birds don’t need to be out doin that.' It‘s okay, he was doing his anyway. 

Listening when you complain about your shitty landlord who has yet to do anything about your faulty water heater. You’re in those shorts he’s only seen through the window, arms crossed and rambling as he thumbs at the valves. 

“It’s a no go bird. You gotta buy a whole new heating element and get it put in dere. If you’re needin to, you can shower at my place till this gets figure’d out ya?”

Neighbour!Kyle who honestly you see more outside of your neighbourhood than in it. You have no clue how but you two always end up in the same place at the same time. 

Grocery shopping? Oh he's here too, it has the best deals on produce! Excursion? Oh he just wanted to see the new exhibit at the aquarium just like you, great minds think alike. Eating something in your favourite cafe during your lunch break? He slides in the seat across from you with a playful smile saying ‘how its nice to see you here neighbour’. 

You don’t even know he slipped a tracker in your purse during one of these bump ins.

That's how it starts. A friendship with a man you apparently have so much in common with. You have to with how much you see him at your favourite places. Even that niche little diner that you love as soon as you mention it he’s finishing off its name and talking about how their sweets are so good.

“What do you mean you haven’t had any? Want me to grab you some next time I go-actually no how about we just go together. I need to see what else you’ve been depriving yourself of. Come on, we’ll go in the evening when it’s nice and quiet so it’ll just be us.”

Neighbour!Johnny who sees the sweet thing living next door and knows he needs to get his hands on you. But he’s smarter than those pretty eyes and dumb grin would let you think. He wants you to come to him. He just needs to prove what a prize he is first. 

So he finds every chance possible to workout outside. 

Deliberately does his stretches for his morning run where you’ll be able to see while you make your coffee for the morning. Absolutely chuffed when he makes eye contact with you while he’s mid shirt pull. The way you go bug eyed when caught ogling has him ready wanting to ask if you liked the show.

Now, god forbid you have a dog. He’s making friends through the fence, coming up to your door offering to take the sweet thing on a walk if you want. Truly he would love to have a running buddy please let him take your pupper out. It becomes normal enough that you don’t even bat an eye when he’s offering to take your baby out when you’re not home. 

“I don’t mind taking my boy out once in a while. His mama’s busy but I’m not. Where’d you say you keep your outside key?”

Neighbour!Simon who quickly learns that he can’t offer to help you round because it comes off as….creepy. He’s the one you think is going to tag you with a tracker or follow you to work. The one that has you holding your keys between your fingers when pulling in at night.

So he takes a different approach. Needy, confused, and helpless. A military man entirely unacquainted with domestic duties.

He’s pathetic in a stuck racoon kind of way. You know you shouldn’t trust him but the way you’ve heard his smoke alarm go off 3 times in the time you’ve been here has you messaging if he wants some of your supper since you made too much. You catch yourself adding far more while cooking just so you have something to drop off to his doorstep. 

You don’t even know how it happened but now you’re in his kitchen teaching him how to make some easy meals with your chicken marinade recipes. Something he won’t burn or over salt. He’s got you rambling away, so blissfully unaware. Safe in his home, so trusting of him now.. He’s made so much improvements with you, no more scurrying away the minute he’s a couple feet away. 

“‘m sorry for needin so much from ya. If there's anything I can do just message me ya? Don’t matter what time, I’ll come. Anything you need.”

[thewickwheat]

I'm going to a post full details under the cut, but a short run down:

I've sort of vaguely mentioned this here and there but this year I'm forcing myself to go on a long hiatus. Its been something in the plans for years now, but I can't put it off any longer because 2024 was the worst wrist pain I've dealt with and I don't want to risk permanently damaging myself if I haven't already.

If you're waiting on a comm, don't worry! My hiatus won't officially start until I've finished them all up (estimating April-May to finish up everything), so just bare with me!

Character Sheet comms are staying open

If you're able and willing to support me during this break, please check out my shops or my Patreon!

Ko-Fi - Physical/Digital Merch + Donations

INPRNT - Physical Prints

Patreon - Process Videos and WiPs

Full details and extra info under the cut

So this has been a long time coming but this year I’ll be taking a long hiatus. This is something I’ve wanted to do for years but I can’t put it off any longer due to how bad my wrist pain was in 2024. I’m feeling incredibly burnt out as well and my turn around times growing longer and longer is a very clear sign of it. It also means I’ve had a growing anxiety that if I continue at this pace I will end up doing permanent damage to my body, if I haven’t already. Creating art is the one thing I know I want to do for the rest of my life, be that drawing for myself or helping other people see their visions come to life, and I don’t want to put that at risk.  

So I can’t put my hiatus off any longer and I’m making this year the start. If you are still waiting on a commission from me, don’t worry! I am going to keep working on them and my official hiatus time won’t start until everything has been finished up. I’m estimating April to May to get everything cleared off the table since I’m going to work at a steady pace. Character sheet commissions are going to remain open, they are not in high demand and I can put them in a queue and so should anyone have interest in one during my hiatus, it could be something I pick up when I need the extra cash. However all other types of commissions are going to be unavailable for the foreseeable future. 

I am aiming for a 6 month long hiatus at the least. If I can go longer I will aim for a full year break. Freelance and commission work has been my main source of income for over 10 years now, so during this time I may also look into getting a part time job so I don't have to rely so heavily on art, which will also affect how much I’ll be able to take on in the future. I’m not quitting art during this hiatus, I do want to keep drawing and creating! But I will be working at a slower pace, creating for myself, experimenting and trying other projects. I also have more merch ideas on the list to work on! I’ve got some plush designs I want to have made,namely a new Zenos plush that will have doll fiber hair that can be brushed and styled.

I will also design more tag style keychains with more XIV characters (like the Scions and other major NPCs), since people have really liked those a lot! I’ll also plan out some other ideas and maybe design some original design plushies or other merch. We’ll see!

If anyone enjoys my work and wants to help support me during my hiatus, please check out my available merch. I have prints on INPRNT, and a variety of items on Ko-Fi (limited prints, artbooks both physical and digital, keychains, stickers, etc.), I also have a patreon where I post process videos of illustrations. You can also drop donations of my Ko-Fi. I will be adding a goal that I’ll set at a high amount I don't expect to reach, just because I personally want a visual of donations or purchases during my break. Even small donations would mean a lot. If only 10% of my followers on twitter or tumblr bought a single Ko-Fi donation, it would be a substantial amount of money. I say this not to guilt folks into donating, but to point out small donations can still have a lot of power. And so I appreciate any support at all!

Thank you so much if you read this entire message. It means a lot to me and I hope a good long break means when I’m  able to get back to commission and freelance I’ll approach them with much more vigor and skill!

[adverbally]

Baby, Please Come Home

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt “together” and the @steddiemas prompt “surprise” | wc: 955 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: future fic, established relationship, alone at Christmas, angst with a happy ending | dividers by @popmilky

“All the flights out are grounded and they’re rerouting everyone coming in. We’re just hoping they can get us in a hotel for the night, otherwise we’re sleeping on the floor of the terminal.”

Eddie sounds so far away through the telephone line. He’s with the rest of Corroded Coffin in New York City, where they’re apparently stuck in the blizzard of the century. The airport is completely shut down, just in time for the Christmas travel season.

“How long do they think it’ll take for the storm to pass?” Steve asks, biting at the cuticle of his thumb. He paces back and forth in front of the phone to work off his nervous energy. It might actually be making him feel worse, moving so much but not getting anywhere, but he can’t just sit here.

Eddie sighs. “No clue. But with how many flights need to be rescheduled, it might be a couple days before I can get home.”

Today is December 23rd, which means— “You won’t be here for Christmas,” Steve realizes.

He hasn’t had a Christmas without Eddie in eight years. Even when they were just friends, they spent the holiday together while Wayne was at work and the Harringtons were in Europe somewhere. Then there were Christmases in their first apartment in Chicago, on the road with Corroded Coffin, even a memorable tropical getaway where their drinks were garnished with Santa hats.

Steve won’t get any of that this year. It was supposed to be a quiet holiday, just the two of them. Now he’ll be alone.

Eddie has clearly come to the same conclusion. “I’m sorry, baby. I’d rent a car and start driving right this second if the roads were clear.”

“It’s not your fault.” He tries hard to keep his voice level and hide any evidence of the tears he wipes from his cheeks. “We’ll celebrate when you get back. Stay safe and say hi to the boys for me.”

Eddie’s voice goes soft. “Okay, sweetheart. I love you. See you soon.”

“Love you,” Steve manages to croak before the line goes dead.

The dial tone seems to echo in the empty apartment for hours.

Christmas Eve passes achingly slowly. Steve spends half the day on the phone, catching up with Dustin visiting his mom back in Hawkins and Robin and Nancy who are snowed in at home in Boston. He waits for Eddie to call, too, maybe with some sort of update on their flight situation.

Eddie doesn’t call.

He stares out the window of their apartment and watches the snow piling up outside. It’s nothing compared to what’s bombarding the east coast, but Steve has always liked the snow. A fresh blanket of white, covering the dirty pavement and muddy slush in the streets with something beautiful. He wishes Eddie were here, complaining about the cold and the ankles of his pants getting wet. Even better, snuggling up with Steve on the couch to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, just like they do every year.

Steve doesn’t try to watch it alone. Instead, he chokes down a frozen dinner and goes to bed at six o’clock so he can have a few hours where he doesn’t have to think about how much he misses Eddie.

It’s very late– or maybe very early– when Steve wakes up to the bed shifting beneath him.

In the dull blue light of the pre-dawn hours, he can only make out shapes. A dark silhouette with messy hair on Eddie’s side of the bed, looking just like Eddie does when he sits to unlace his boots.

Steve thinks he might choke on the wave of emotion that rises in his throat. It’s Eddie, undeniably. He can tell from the exhaustion in his shoulders and his quiet mumbles of frustration when he can’t undo the knot in his shoelaces.

Without thinking, Steve reaches out a hand to settle at the small of Eddie’s back.

Eddie looks at him over his shoulder, an apologetic grimace on his face. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you up.”

“You—” Steve can barely get a word out before his vision starts to blur and his chest gets tight. The tears he hadn’t let himself shed all day are hitting him hard now, like the shock of Eddie making it home knocked them loose.

“Oh, baby, don’t cry.” Eddie shifts until he’s lying next to Steve, still wearing his jeans and an old henley of Steve’s. He smells like recycled plane air.

Steve doesn’t hesitate to roll into Eddie’s waiting arms. He needs the comfort, the reassurance that Eddie is real and solid and here. “I can’t believe you made it,” he mumbles into Eddie’s shirt.

“Me neither,” Eddie sighs. Already, his fingers are combing through Steve’s hair, trying to soothe both of them at once. “A seat opened up at the very last minute. I didn’t even have a chance to call and tell you I was leaving.”

“Remind me to be mad about that later.” He can feel Eddie’s quiet laugh rumbling through his chest. Steve smiles along with him. “God, I missed you.”

Eddie kisses his temple. “I’m taking you with me next time, I don’t care if it’s only for two shows.”

“Sounds good.”

“And no more holiday concerts.”

“Nuh-uh.” It comes out a little slurred, Steve’s voice feeling as heavy as his eyelids now that he’s comfortable and Eddie is with him.

Eddie is still stroking his hair in long, slow movements. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

Steve hums in agreement. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Just before Steve drifts off, he thinks that Eddie might be the best Christmas gift he’s ever gotten.

[theonottsbxtch]

99 PROBLEMS | MV1

an: this is literally a crack fic, i had the idea when i was listening to 99 problems by jay-z and i was talking to @iamred-iamyellow please enjoy

summary: max never expected to one day have a 17 year old son. he didn't know he was a father. but now he's got to try and figure out how this nerd is his son. and also teach him how to live a little.

wc: 3.3k

Max never thought he’d be a single dad to a teenage boy, but shit happens.

One minute, he was in Monaco celebrating another podium win, champagne-soaked and grinning for the cameras. The next, there was a seventeen-year-old with his eyes and an attitude to match standing on his doorstep with a duffel bag. His name was Noah—“not ‘Dad,’ just Max”—and he wasn’t here to bond. No, Noah was here because apparently the universe thought karma would be funnier this way.

Max was on the balcony of his Monaco apartment replying to a few emails, the city’s lights flickering like a postcard behind him. He could hear Noah inside, rifling through the fridge, muttering complaints about the lack of “real food.”

“Hey, don’t knock the caviar!” Max called over his shoulder. “It’s got protein!”

“Caviar’s not dinner!” Noah fired back, slamming the fridge door.

Max smirked, chuckling a bit. The kid had a point. The life of a Formula One champion didn’t exactly prepare him for raising a teenager. Most days, it was all jet-setting, high-end sponsorships, and a new girl on his arm by sundown. It was messy, but it was his kind of messy. Now? Now, he had to figure out how to squeeze fatherhood in between the chaos.

“You seriously live like this?” Noah asked, stepping onto the balcony, holding up one of Max’s custom helmets. His tone wasn’t admiration—it was judgement.

“Like what?” Max said, not looking up from his phone.

“You know, like...this. Cars, women, parties. I mean, isn’t it exhausting?”

Max chuckled low, pocketing his phone. “Don’t have time to be tired.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “Right. So, uh...where do I fit in this circus?”

Max turned, his smirk fading just enough to let a flicker of honesty show. “Haven’t figured that out yet. But we’ll make it work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max glanced back at the city below. “Now, go grab a drink or something. Just...not the champagne.”

And that’s how it started: the driver, his kid, and a life moving faster than either of them could control.

Max hadn’t had a conventional childhood and he could tell this kid did, well as conventional as it was to be dropped off at your dad who you’ve never met’s house a few weeks before your 18th birthday.

He thought that maybe while he was here he could teach him a few things, take him to a few races or something. 

Max didn’t really know what to do.

The private gym was tucked into the corner of Max’s penthouse, all sleek machines and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was rarely used. Most of Max’s training happened at the Headquarters. or with his team, but Noah had been dragging his feet around the apartment all week, so Max figured a little sweat might do them both some good.

“Alright, kid,” Max said, tossing a pair of dumbbells onto the mat. “Let’s see if you’ve got anything in the tank. Ever lifted before?”

“Sure,” Noah replied, unimpressed. He sat down on the bench press, giving the machine a once-over like he was deciding whether or not to trust it.

Max crossed his arms, watching as Noah pushed through a few hesitant reps. “Not bad. But if that’s your warm-up, we’re in trouble.”

Noah glared, setting the weights down with a clink. “Not all of us need muscles for a living.”

Max laughed. “Touché. So, what do you do for fun then?”

“Fun?”

“Yeah, fun. You know, like hobbies, friends, maybe a girlfriend?”

Noah shrugged, grabbing a water bottle. “Not much. I play some video games, read, I guess. Nothing crazy.”

“Read?” Max frowned. “What, no parties? No sneaking out? You don’t go out?”

“Go out where?” Noah’s voice had that dry teenage edge to it. “I’m seventeen. I lived in America my whole life. You can’t even get into a bar without a fake ID there.”

Max froze mid-stretch, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me you’ve never had a drink?”

Noah gave him a look like he’d just asked if the sky was blue. “No?”

Max stared at him, dumbfounded. “God. If only you knew what I was doing at your age when my dad had his back turned.”

Noah rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me guess. Clubbing in Paris. Drinking champagne with supermodels. Living the dream?”

“Belgium, but close,” Max said, leaning against the bench press. “Keg parties in the back of some guy’s trailer in Hasselt. Terrible beer, worse decisions, and my trainer yelling at me the next morning. Still, though. I can’t believe you’re seventeen and haven’t even had a sip.”

“I mean, it’s not a big deal,” Noah muttered.

“Not a big deal?” Max barked out a laugh. “Mate, by seventeen, I’d already figured out my go-to drink order. Vodka tonic. Not classy, but it got the job done.” He leaned in, his grin borderline mischievous. “We’ve got some work to do.”

Noah held up his hands, shaking his head. “Oh no. You’re not turning this into some wild ‘how to live’ project.”

Max raised his eyebrows, mock-innocent. “Hey, I’m just saying. Gotta live a little.”

“Maybe I don’t want to end up like you,” Noah shot back.

Max laughed again, but this time it came quieter, almost thoughtful. “Trust me, buddy. Nobody ends up like me. Now, come on. Two more sets, and then I’ll show you how to make a proper protein shake. Don’t worry—I won’t spike it.”

Noah snorted, shaking his head as he got back to work. It was just another morning, another disagreement, but Max couldn’t help feeling like they were inching closer to something real. Something like family.

By the end of the week, Noah was starting to think his dad was running some kind of unofficial competition.

On Monday, it was Marie. She was Monegasque, blonde, and talked like she was auditioning for a perfume ad. “Bonjour, mon cher,” she’d purred at Noah, ruffling his hair like he was ten. Max had barely noticed her leave, too busy scrolling his phone for his next big sponsorship deal.

Tuesday brought Yasmin, a Brazilian model who walked around the apartment in Max’s oversized shirt, pretending not to notice Noah glaring at her from the couch. She’d tried to make conversation, something about school and books, but Noah had just shrugged until she gave up.

By Wednesday, it was Clara, who had an annoying laugh and kept calling Max “babe” like they’d been married for years.

Thursday was a whirlwind—two girls, both of whom Max forgot to introduce. One of them waved awkwardly at Noah as they left, heels clicking on the tile floor.

By Friday, Noah wasn’t even fazed. He sat at the kitchen counter, eating cereal while Max brewed coffee, shirtless and looking entirely too smug for a guy running on five hours of sleep.

“How?” Noah finally said, his spoon clinking against the bowl.

Max glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “How what?”

“You know.” Noah waved vaguely toward the hallway where yet another pair of heels had disappeared moments ago. “Them. How do you...?”

Max chuckled, shaking his head as he poured his coffee. “Not that complicated.” He took a sip, leaning against the counter like he was about to deliver some ancient wisdom. “They like fast cars and big dreams. I’ve got both.”

Noah squinted at him. “Yeah, but don’t they know what they’re getting into? Like...you’re not exactly giving ‘dad of the year’ vibes.”

Max laughed, the sound echoing through the kitchen. “Oh, they know. Trust me, they all think they’re the one who’s gonna ‘change me.’” He set his mug down, smirking. “Spoiler alert: they’re not.”

Noah frowned, stirring his cereal. “Doesn’t it get old?”

“What?”

“The whole thing. Girls coming and going. Don’t you ever want...I don’t know, something normal?”

Max tilted his head, studying him for a second. “Normal’s overrated. Besides, why are you so interested? You got someone back in the States?”

Noah snorted. “No. Not unless you count my English teacher who used to give me extra credit just to stop talking in class.”

Max grinned, pushing off the counter. “Smart kid. Learn from me, though—don’t waste your charm on teachers. Save it for someone who can actually keep up.”

Noah rolled his eyes, standing up to put his bowl in the sink. “You’re insane.”

“And yet,” Max said, raising his coffee in a mock toast, “I’m still your dad. Crazy how that works.”

Noah shook his head, walking out of the kitchen. But as he headed toward his room, he caught himself smirking. Max was a mess—there was no denying that. But, annoyingly, there was something kind of fascinating about watching him pull it off.

He had to give him some respect. Three time world champion but he lived his life like an unbothered bachelor that didn’t have a multi-million contract under his belt.

Two days later, Max was standing in front of his wardrobe, trying to decide between a black shirt and a white graphic tee. He ended up tossing the black top onto the bed, shrugging into the white tee. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from the group chat reminding him that their table was already reserved at Jimmy’s.

Max grabbed his watch and headed toward the living room, adjusting it as he walked. Noah was sprawled on the couch, scrolling his phone with the kind of disinterested focus only teenagers could pull off.

“You wanna come?” Max asked casually, pulling his car keys from the counter.

Noah didn’t even look up. “I’m seventeen.”

Max leaned against the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And I’m Max Verstappen.”

Noah gave him a deadpan look. “Yeah, that’s not how laws work.”

Max stepped into the room, tossing his keys in the air and catching them with one hand. “Relax, kid. You’re with me. No one’s checking your ID.” He raised an eyebrow, adding, “Unless you want to stay here and eat more cereal while I’m out having the time of my life.”

Noah hesitated, sitting up slightly. “What, and hang out with you and your harem of club girls? Hard pass.”

Max grinned, crossing his arms. “It’s not just girls. My friends will be there. Good music, good drinks, a little chaos. You could use some chaos.”

Noah snorted. “I don’t think I fit your ‘chaos’ aesthetic.”

Max walked over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to fit. You just show up, keep your head up, and let the good times come to you. Trust me, kid—it’s not rocket science.”

Noah looked at him, torn between scepticism and curiosity. “And if I hate it?”

“Then you call it a night, and we’ll come back. No harm, no foul.” Max shrugged. “But at least you’ll know what you’re missing.”

Noah sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. But if anyone tries to buy me a drink, I’m out.”

“Deal.” Max grinned, slapping him on the back. “Now, go change. You’re not wearing that.” He gestured vaguely at Noah’s hoodie and sweatpants.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s not wrong; it’s tragic. Go put on something that says, ‘I’m seventeen, but I could still be cooler than you.’”

Noah rolled his eyes but got up and headed toward his room. Max leaned back against the couch, chuckling to himself. This was either going to be a disaster or the most fun he’d had in weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, Noah emerged in dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. It wasn’t flashy, but it worked.

Max whistled. “There you go. Almost looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t push it,” Noah muttered, grabbing his jacket.

“Alright, kid,” Max said, swinging an arm around his shoulders as they headed for the elevator. “Welcome to the good life. Try to keep up.”

Jimmy’z was everything Noah expected and nothing he was prepared for. The place was loud, packed, and drenched in neon lights that pulsed to the bass of some remix he didn’t recognise. Max walked in like he owned it, breezing past the bouncers and slapping hands with a few familiar faces on his way to their table.

The VIP section was cordoned off with velvet ropes and framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city. A couple of Max’s friends were already there, leaning back with drinks in hand, laughing at some story one of them was telling.

Max clapped a hand on Lando's shoulder, said something about ordering another round, and then turned to Noah with a grin. “Alright, kid. First drink’s on me.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to drink?” Noah muttered, looking around nervously.

“You’re not supposed to get caught drinking,” Max corrected, flagging down a waitress. “Two rum and cokes. Easy on the rum for him,” he added with a wink.

Noah sat awkwardly, trying to ignore the curious glances from Max’s friends. When the drinks came, Max slid one across the table. “Here. Cheers.”

Noah picked up the glass and took a cautious sip, immediately grimacing. “This tastes like gasoline.”

Max burst out laughing, nearly spilling his own drink. “Yeah, it’s not exactly a milkshake, but you’ll get used to it.”

Noah frowned but kept sipping, each drink slightly less terrible than the last. By the time the glass was empty, he didn’t hate it—but he definitely wasn’t in a hurry for another.

“Alright,” Max said, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the booth. “Time for your next lesson.”

“Lesson?”

“Yeah.” Max grinned, nodding toward the dance floor where a group of girls was laughing and swaying to the music. “How to get a girl.”

Noah blinked at him. “I’m seventeen.”

“And you’re eighteen in three weeks,” Max shot back, smirking.

Noah raised an eyebrow. “How do you even know that?”

Max sipped his drink, looking almost offended. “I pay attention. I’m not that bad of a father, you know.”

Noah snorted. “Debatable.”

“Hey, come on,” Max said, leaning forward and pointing at him with his glass. “I’ve got three weeks to turn you into someone who doesn’t spend prom night sitting in the corner playing Angry Birds. Let me work my magic.”

“I didn’t go to prom,” Noah mumbled.

“Exactly my point.” Max gestured to the dance floor. “Now, watch and learn.”

Noah shook his head, but he couldn’t help smirking. Watching Max in his element was like watching a lion stalk the savanna. Ridiculous, over-the-top, and somehow annoyingly effective.

Noah leaned back in the plush booth, his gaze flicking nervously between the drink in his hand and the dance floor. “This feels illegal,” he muttered under his breath.

Max, already halfway through his second rum and coke, let out a loud laugh that turned a few heads. “Illegal? We’re in Monaco.” He gestured broadly at the glittering club around them, as if the name alone erased all laws. “The girls here don’t care how old you are, as long as you’re pretty enough.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “And what if I’m not?”

Max leaned forward, smirking. “You’re my son, so of course you are. Trust me, kid, you’ve got the genes. Now, you just need the confidence to back it up.”

Noah rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, sure. Because confidence is something you can just magically summon.”

“Exactly,” Max said, snapping his fingers like it was that simple. “It’s all in the attitude. Look, you don’t need to be the smartest or the funniest guy in the room. You just need to act like you know something they don’t. Makes them curious. Curiosity’s half the battle.”

Noah stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s the dumbest advice I’ve ever heard.”

Max grinned, sitting back and gesturing to the waitress for another round. “And yet, here I am. Multi-millionaire. World champion. Living proof it works.”

“Yeah, but you’re—” Noah hesitated, then gestured vaguely at Max’s whole presence. “You.”

“Exactly. And you’re half me. Which means you’ve already got a head start.” Max leaned in, lowering his voice like he was letting Noah in on a secret. “Here’s the trick: don’t overthink it. If you go out there looking like you’ve got something to prove, you’ll scare ‘em off. Just...be cool.”

“Cool,” Noah repeated, deadpan. “Got it. Thanks for the groundbreaking advice.”

Max smirked, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Fine. Don’t believe me. But if I come back with two numbers before you even finish that drink, you’re buying me breakfast tomorrow.”

Noah shook his head as Max strolled off toward the dance floor, impossibly confident and infuriatingly charismatic. It was hard not to admire it, even if it made him feel like an awkward kid in comparison.

He stared down at his empty glass, debating whether to order another drink or just leave, when a girl about his age walked past and glanced his way. She gave him a small smile, and Noah froze, his heart racing.

Max’s words echoed in his head. “Just act like you know something they don’t.”

Noah took a deep breath, set his empty glass on the table, and stood up. His palms felt clammy, and every nerve in his body screamed at him to sit back down. But then he caught Max watching from the floor with an infuriating smirk before turning to whichever woman he was talking to this time.

Don’t overthink it, Noah reminded himself. Just be cool.

The girl was standing near the edge of the dance floor with a friend, laughing at something on her phone. She looked up as he approached, her eyes flicking over him in curiosity.

“Hey,” Noah said, trying to sound casual. “You looked like you needed saving from a bad joke.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And you’re the knight in shining armour?”

“Something like that,” Noah said, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Or at least I’m not the guy who made you laugh like that.”

Her smile widened, and her friend nudged her playfully before disappearing toward the bar. “Smooth,” she said, tilting her head. “Do you use that line often?”

“First time, actually,” Noah admitted, his lips twitching into a nervous grin.

The honesty seemed to win her over. They started talking—light, easy banter—and before Noah knew it, she was laughing at something he’d said about his dad being a “professional bad influence.”

From the booth, Max had a clear view of the whole thing. He nudged Lando, grinning like a proud idiot. “Lan, look!” He pointed toward the dance floor. “The son of a bitch did it!”

Lando squinted, then let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Max chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his seat. “He’s my kid. Of course he’s got it in him.”

Noah returned to the table a while later, looking flushed and slightly dishevelled. His lips were swollen, and there was a faint lipstick smudge on his cheek.

Max raised his glass in a mock toast. “Atta boy!”

Noah slid into the booth, trying to suppress a grin. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Max said, slapping him on the back. “You’re officially part of the club now.”

Lando smirked. “Better keep an eye on him, Max. He’s almost got more potential than you.”

“Potential? He’s a damn prodigy,” Max joked, laughing. “First drink, first girl, all in one night. Kid’s got a better batting average than I did at his age.”

Noah rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling. As much as his dad’s teasing drove him crazy, there was something undeniably cool about seeing Max so proud.

“Alright,” Max said, clapping his hands together. “Now that you’ve got your feet wet, let’s see if you can do it again.”

Noah shook his head, laughing. “Not a chance. One’s enough for tonight.”

“Fair enough,” Max said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “But just so you know—you’ve officially graduated from boring.”

For once, Noah didn’t argue.

the end.

[adrienneleclerc]

Hi I was the one requested the two Lewis Hamilton imagine and the Carlos sainz imagine and I was also the one who sent you the message about the Daniel Ricardo imagine and I have one more request you can take your time on this one I really don't care but another Lewis Hamilton imagine well I don't know Lewis's walking in a park or somewhere and he finds a straight dog or puppy or whatever and he takes it to the closest vet in the reader is a veterinarian and yeah whenever you want to do from there it's all up to you so yeah

🥰🫶🇲🇽

Oh that sounds nice, Lewis is definitely the type to do right by a stray dog

Puppy Love

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Vet!Reader

Summary: while playing fetch with Roscoe at the park, he finds an abandoned dog and takes him to the nearest vet office and crushes on the pretty vet attending the dog

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors

A/N: i think I just successfully convinced my mom that we should go to Monaco for vacation 🫢. Well, we are going to Nice, France and then take a bus to Monaco so I can see the Prince’s car collection. Maybe I’ll post pictures here

Lewis decided to bring Roscoe with him to New York and being the good dog owner he is, he took Roscoe out to the park in the morning, bringing a frisbee to play fetch with.

“Alright, buddy, you ready to play fetch?” Lewis asked and Roscoe barked in agreement, wiggling his butt. “Go long, boy!” Lewis says as he tossed the frisbee, Roscoe being a good boy and ran as fast as he could to get the frisbee. However, the frisbee landed in front of another dog, making Roscoe bark.

Lewis was alerted by the usually calm dog’s bark and rushed over to see what Roscoe had seen and right before his eyes, there was a Pekingnese puppy just under a year, shivering, covered in mud.

“Hi buddy.” Lewis cooed at the puppy, trying to appear as approachable as possible. It seems to work because the puppy started inching towards him. “There you go, a little bit closer, little guy.” Lewis said until the puppy because close enough so he could carry him. The little puppy leaned into his embrace. “Cold little bugger, aren’t you? Alright, let’s go see if you’re chipped, alright? Come on, Roscoe.” Lewis said, putting Roscoe’s leash back on.

Since the puppy didn’t have a collar, he couldn’t use Roscoe’s extra leash to walk him. He was walking Roscoe while carrying the puppy in his arms and walked until they reached an animal clinic. Lewis walked in and went straight up to the front desk.

“Alright, please sign in and we’ll get to you shortly.” The receptionist said and Lewis did just that. Everything was fine until the puppy started howling in his arms.

“What’s wrong, fella?” Lewis asked the puppy, inspecting him. “Shit, he has something in his paw. Can you see him, please? He’s only a puppy and I just found him in the street.”

“Alright, come on in and wait for the vet to see you.” The receptionist said and Lewis walked in with Roscoe. When Lewis placed the puppy on the table, that’s when he realized the puppy had a slight limp. He hadn’t noticed because of how long the puppy’s fur was. Lewis was comforting the puppy when he heard the door open.

“Okay, Lewis Hamilton?” The vet said.

“Hi, yes, that’s me. Lewis said nervously.

“I’m Y/N, I’ll be your vet today. What brings in this little cutie, today?” You said petting the puppy.

“Um i was in the dog park with my bulldog and we found him. He didn’t have a collar, I brought him in to see if he was chipped but apparently he has a limp as well.” Lewis said.

“Right, I’ll just take his vitals before checking if there is a chip to see if there are signs of malnourishment considering the conditions you found him in.” You said, putting on your stethoscope to listen to the puppy. The puppy whimpered but you managed to calm him down enough so he would stay still. “His vitals are fine, feels a bit underweight, you can’t tell under that fur but I’ll weigh him shortly. I’ll bring in the scanner to check if there is a chip.”

You walked out and Lewis was thinking about how beautiful you were. Young too, thinking you were in your late twenties to early thirties. Lewis was comforting Roscoe who seemed just as nervous as the puppy. You then came back with the scanner and waved it over the puppy,

“Huh, this poor guy doesn’t seemed chipped. Buts that’s okay little fella, I’m sure this nice man over here will take you in.” You cooed as the puppy, making him was his tail as you looked at Lewis with puppy dog eyes, tryna guilt him into owning another dog.

“I’m not sure if I can…” Lewis started.

“Dude, you’re an F1 driver, you seem to be taking care of Roscoe perfectly fine, what’s one more dog? Plus, who knows how the shelter will be, he could get adopted by some bad people.” You tried to convince him

“I Don’t think that’s very professional of you.” Lewis teased.

“May not be, but at least I’d know he’ll be going to a good home.” You said. “Just think about it, I have to go weigh the fella. Let’s go, baby.” You said, carrying the puppy outside the room to weight him. Roscoe just stared up at Lewis, who was also guilting him.

“Not you too.” Lewis whined, making Roscoe huff. “Alright, fine, I’ll bring him in.” You then came back in the room.

“Good news, he’s only like 3 pounds underweight, should be an easy fix, he just doesn’t eat as much as he should. His limp a,so appears to be a sprain, I’ll give you some pain medication for him, along with some supplements that should improve his joint health. Now, what are you going to name this beautiful baby boy?” You asked.

“You’re laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” Lewis asked.

“I’m trying to get him adopted by you so yeah.” You said.

“I’m going to name him Miracle.” Lewis said, petting the newly named puppy.

“Okay, Miracle Hamilton it is. I’ll get everything prepared you, okay?” You said before walking out. Lewis carried Miracle and grappled Roscoe’s leash to wait in the waiting room for you. “Okay, here’s the medication and a list of supplements that I recommend you should buy…along with my number.”

“Your number? Are you flirting with me, Y/N?” Lewis asked with a flirty smile.

“I am, this way you can call me if you need with Miracle or if you just want to talk. Up to you, of course.” You told him.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you, have a great day, guys.” Lewis said, walking out with his old friend and new puppy. He started buying puppy food for Miracle’s breed, a few toys, a leash, collar, everything a new dog needs.

When Lewis made it to the apartment, he let Miracle and Roscoe get acquainted while he stares at your number. After having the two dogs stare at him, he caved. “Hey, Y/N, It’s me, Lewis, I don’t have to be in Maranello for another 2 weeks, you want to go out Friday night?” Lewis asked.

“I would love to.” You said, Lewis could hear the smile on your face and that made him smile as well.

The End

Hope y’all liked it! Sorry I’ve been inactive

[chiara8104]

i was wondering if u could do lando x reader fluff? maybe one where they've been together for a long time and are going back in time and remembering the day they met, meeting the parents, friends. something like that PLEASE!!!!

New beginnings | ln4

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a/n: this is such an amazing request!! when I saw it, it immediately caught my eye!! I hope you enjoy! Sorry I haven’t been replying to all of ur requests! I have a singing audition and a physics midterm very soon and I’m pretty stressed! I will try my best to get to everyone’s requests! don’t forget requests are always open!! xo chia

summary: lando and y/n take a trip down memory lane.

warnings: fluff, swearing, use of y/n!, use of pet names, italics = hello mean flashback. not proofread (sorry loves!)

wc: idk

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Moving day

You had agreed to move in with lando after months of begging from him. And there you were, sitting at your apartment packing up all your things, putting them into moving boxes and carrying them downstairs.

You had walked outside to the moving truck and gave lando the box, he grabbed it out of your grasp and put it in the back. “How about some food?” You smile at him. “Why not,” he ginned back at you.

You both walked to the kitchen together. You scrummaged around in the fridge trying to find some type of food, the fridge was basically bare until you came across a couple eggs and some veggies.

You grab the eggs and crack them into a bowl, cutting up the veggies you found and adding them into the bowl. You turn on the last pan you had in the kitchen and started to made some omelettes for the both of you. You start to realize this was the last time you would be in this apartment, cooking a meal for you and your boyfriend. You started to feel sappy and looked back down at the now, cooked omelette.

You looked around in the cupboards to find no plates “fuck,” you mumbled under your breath. That was the first box you took to landos. “Something wrong?” Lando looked at your puzzled state. “I forgot I packed all my plates first, they’re already at your house,” you let out a heavy sigh. “It’s fine, we’ll eat out of the pan,”he smiled slightly at you. “Hopefully I can find some type of cutlery around here,”

As you continued to look around your somewhat empty kitchen, you find a couple old forks and knives laying around. Ones you forgot even existed. You swiftly grabbed them and walked over to lando. You both enjoyed the quiet, relaxing times with him. All the chaos can be so overwhelming, lando with f1 and you with university.

Once you finished your omelettes, you walked back to your room. There were a few boxes that were laying around, but one caught your eye. It was the sentimental box, full of Polaroids of your friends, lando, and even your old cat, Luna. You smiled at the photos, and scrummaged through the box. You found your old camcorder you thrifted back in 2018. You opened the camcorder, praying that it’ll turn on and to your surprise it did.

You scroll back to the first video taken on the camcorder and smiled. It was you. Walking with your camcorder in hand to a place in the park with a mysterious man. But that man wasn’t just anyone, it was lando. His voice was squeaky “hey!” he smiled at the camcorder. You grinned at seeing his younger state, until the camcorder got passed to lando to show yourself. You cringed at your old state, the ripped skinny jeans and old, beaten up black vans. “Oh god,” you quickly close the camcorder before lando walked in. “Holy shit, I haven’t seen this in years.” He walked closer to you, grabbing it out of you hands and opening it.

Lando scrolled through all the videos the two of you made over the past few years. Ones you forgotten about. Lando clicked on one, “hey guys,” you say in the background, your camera pointed at lando. “Today, lando is meeting my parents!” Lando turned beet red in the video, his anxious stance was very present in the video. He had some type of flowers he bought from the floral shop not too long before. Lando takes a deep breath and knocks on the door of your mum and dad’s home. Swiftly the door opened, your mum greeting lando with a big hug. “You must be lando! I’ve heard so much about you,” lando was tense in the grasp of your mum, but slightly relaxed a few seconds. He let go of your mum and handed her the flowers. “These are for you,” he said nervously, he smiled when she looked at them. “Oh! These are beautiful. Thank you dear,” your mum turned her body to let you two in. Hugging you when you came by. Once you had gotten further into the house the video stopped completely.

You smiled at lando who was giggling slightly at the horrible camera work, after all, he did have a photography account. You grabbed the camcorder out of his hands and started to record, "hey guys," you said in the background, the camera pointed to the (almost) empty room. "Lando is helping me move out. We're moving in together!" you cheerfully exclaim, you turn the camcorder to lando who is continuing to look through your sentimentals. You shoved the camcorder right in his face, he smiled and waved at the camcorder. "im showing this to our future kids," you grin. "Kids, eh?" he smirked, you hit him playfully, "duh."

You continued to walk around the apartment, giving a slight story to your 'audience' about every place in your apartment. Finally you got to the front door, a bittersweet feeling slowly started to kick in. You hear footsteps coming towards you, it was lando carrying your last box. You sigh heavily, placing the camcorder down, it pointing towards the two of you. "So, this is it, huh." you mumble, lando pats your back contently. "New beginnings love. I'm so excited for you to move in with me! " he was calm, hopeful, excited. You smile at his cheerfulness and gave lando a quick peck on the kiss. "I cannot wait to start my new beginning with you," your face lit up and you grabbed the camcorder from the ground. "Well, this is it! Bye guys," you smile. Lando peering over your shoulder, "byeeee!" he waves.

You sigh as you end the recording. You start to slowly walk out of your apartment, lando following behind with the last box. He places it down when he gets outside your front door, you hesitantly close it. You grab the keys out of your pocket and fiddle trying to grab the right one, you were anxious. What happens if you guys break up? All these negative emotions fill your thoughts until lando sees your uneasy state. He places his hand over your now shaking hand. You take a deep breath and lock your door. You turn to lando.

"To new beginnings," you smile.

"To new beginnings, love." lando kisses you.

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a/n: here we go! second fic. more are coming. I hope you guys enjoyed. I might make this a multi-part fic, with different cute videos y/n and lando find if people want that (comment or send in a request telling me!!) anyway, requests are always open. <3 thank you for everyone and their support on the max fic! everyone is so sweet and supportive.

[harknessxo]

House Of Balloons

Paring: Dark!Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: When Agatha went into Westview her goal was to find the source of such chaotic magic but the moment she saw you, her plan changed just a little bit.

Warnings; psychological abuse (with magic), google translate Latin, kissing, possessive Agatha, non-con, girl penis, breeding kink, corruption kink, dacryphilia.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/n: I finished it and the realized I forgot the mistress kink. I’m so sorry!

When Agatha got tangled up in Wanda’s Hex, her plan was to figure out where the source of such power was and take every bit of it for herself. That was until you came along. See, she soon figured out Wanda was the one responsible for this sickening reality she created and made her mission to befriend her so it would be easier to get her power. She followed Wanda’s…script per-say and made sure to dress herself for each decade.

Then came the 60s episode. Agatha took Wanda to Dottie’s committee meeting and that’s when she saw you. She stopped in her tracks to admire your beauty but stopped before anyone would notice. She made sure to sit right next to you and strike up a conversation.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She complimented, trying to get your attention. You immediately looked in her direction, a rosy tint straining your cheeks.

“T-thank you,” you stuttered nervously. She chuckled at your nervousness. How adorable you were, she thought.

“I’m Agnes,” she introduced herself.

“I’m Y/n. Nice to meet you,” you replied politely. She smiled as you told her your name. A beautiful name for such a beautiful doll.

“It’s a pleasure, doll,” she rested a hand on your knee, watching for your reaction to her flirting, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. New in town?”

“I…” you stopped yourself trying to remember. Why couldn’t you remember? She noticed your pause, but before she could say anything Dottie called for the meeting to start.

“Alright everyone lets start today’s meeting.” Dottie announced.

“We’ll continue our conversation later, darling.” Agatha placed a hand on your thigh and squeezed it reassuringly.

“Okay,” you smiled awkwardly. Why couldn’t you remember something so simple?

The meeting began, and though it was long and boring, Agatha enjoyed being next to you. Her hand had remained on your thigh but she felt you squirm under her touch so she moved it. That last thing she wanted was to scare you off. She wanted for you to come to her willingly…at least with a little bit of magic.

As the meeting continued on Agatha kept stealing halves at you every now and then, completely forgetting why she was there in the first place and instead brewing a whole new plan that included you coming with her after she sucked Wanda dry of her powers.

Her mind slowly formed and tweaked her plan, but it still had one problem. A small, yet critical obstacle. That would be Wanda Maximoff herself. But…this town was Agatha’s to play with. If anyone would ruin her plans, it would be her.

Eventually, the meeting was done. Agatha didn’t hesitate to keep you from walking away, a strong arm wrapped around your waist and gently holding you in place.

“Would you like to come over for some tea, sweetheart?” she asked but it came out more as a demand.

“I uh- sure!” you replied nervously. She smirked, pleased that you didn’t put up a fight. She guided you out of the room, her hand resting on the small of your back, her touch hot through the fabric of your dress.

“Good choice. I want to get to know you better,” You were quite confused by this woman’s sudden interest in you but for some reason you didn’t question it, you couldn’t.

She chuckled as you seemed so…naive. You were just like putty in her hands. It wouldn’t be long until she’d have you wrapped around her finger and at her feet. Once she got you to her home, she led you to the couch and sat you down, sitting beside you with her thigh against yours.

“Do you have a preferred type of tea?”

“Anything is fine by me, thank you,” she smiled, reaching out to caress your cheek with her hand. She loved how you were just so easily trusting, even when her touch was possessive and forceful. She leaned a little closer to you as she spoke.

“I have some jasmine tea that I love. That will have to do.”

“O-okay…” you watched as she walked into her kitchen, all while you tried to wrap your head around what was happening. You kept trying to remember anything only for a harshful voice forcefully telling you to stop inside your own mind, making you wince.

Once the tea was brewed, she carried the tea kettle and two cups to the coffee table in front of you. She gently poured a cup of tea for both of you before sitting beside you once more, the tea kettle on the floor next to her. She watched you closely as you seemed uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong, my dear? Are you feeling uncomfortable?”

“No! Of course not!” you quickly said, not wanting her to offend her, “I just…I can’t seem to remember anything. I- I don’t know how to explain it.” This made her remember you were under Wanda’s spell along with the rest of the town. She frowned thinking of how much pain you were under.

“You can’t remember anything? At all?”

“No. It’s like every time I try…a voice yells at me to stop…” silence fell into the room which made you snap out of the sudden trance, “I’m sorry- that was stupid to say- how long have you lived here?” You said trying to change the subject. She mentally chuckled at your little change in subject but didn’t push it. The least she could do was answer some of your questions…even if they were boring.

“Hm… about a month or two,” she hummed, reaching out to grab her cup of tea, her fingers slightly grazing against your thigh in the process. That wasn’t intentional…in your eyes. You picked up the other tea cup and took a sip, oblivious to the enchantment Agatha had put in it. It was meant to…plant seeds for you to fall for her bit by bit.

She watched you closely as you drank the tea, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. The enchantment slowly began to take effect, the magic flowing through your body. She could see it in your eyes, how your pupils slightly dilated and your body seemed to be a bit more relaxed than before.

“This tea is really good! What did you put in it?” You gushed. She feigned innocence, shrugging her shoulders slightly as she took a sip of her own tea.

“Just some herbs I picked from my garden,” she lied, watching you closely. The effects were definitely taking effect on you, and it only took a few more moments before you would be completely in her grasp.

As you continued on talking to Agnes for the rest of the afternoon, you began to feel more attracted towards her. As if something was pulling you towards her and you couldn’t help it. You had finished your tea and now, you were practically glued to Agatha’s side. She sat on the couch, her legs stretched out across the cushions and her arms draped over the back of the couch. You were sitting right beside her, your body almost pressed up against hers. She loved how the enchantment was affecting you, making you more needy for her touch.

As adorable as she thought you were like this, she wanted to take her time with you so she walked you home to make sure you were safe even as you tried to protest, wanted to stay with her a little longer.

When she arrived at your house, she smirked at your cute pout. She chuckled and gently grabbed your chin between her fingers, forcing you to look at her.

“Now, now, doll. I have things to do and I need you to behave for me, alright?”

“Okay…will you come over tomorrow?” She smiled, gently stroking your cheek with her thumb.

“Of course I will, darling. I’ll come by tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow!”

“Good night, sweetheart,” she said with a smirk before giving you a little push towards your door, waiting for you to enter your house before she left. As you went into your home, you felt that voice in your head once again telling you what to do and how to do it. It made you wince but you did as it said, too afraid of the consequence if you didn’t. It told you to go to bed and so you did only for nightmares that didn’t belong to you to occur as if they were reality.

For the next three episodes you only fell harder for Agnes. She made the voice in your head quiet down though ever since the first day you met her, your recurring headaches got worse. She could tell you were in so much pain but was skeptical in lifting Wanda’s spell. If she lifted Wanda’s spell, she would also lift her own. She didn’t know how you would react.

You were now sitting in your living room talking with Agnes while your tv was on for background noise. You were practically sitting on her lap with how close you were to her. She had one arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close to her. She loved the way you practically clung to her. She was also having trouble keeping her hands to herself. Her hand slowly slipped underneath your shirt and gently caressed the skin of your hip, a small smirk on her lips as she watched your reaction.

“So, did you like the cookies I baked you, sweetheart?”

“Yes! They were so good. You need to teach me how to make them!” you gushed like you always did with everything she made. She chuckled at your enthusiasm, her hand slowly sliding up your hip and moving to your stomach, her fingers gently tracing small patterns against your skin. Gosh you were so cute.

“Of course I will, darling. We can bake them together some time,” she hummed, gently tugging you even closer. When you looked up at her you realized how closer the two of you were now. You looked down her lips yet didn’t do anything, too scared to make a move.

She noticed your gaze flicker down to her lips and she couldn’t help but chuckle, her hand on your hip squeezing slightly. She was patient, but she knew that you needed some encouragement. She lifted her other hand and gently tilted your chin up to look her in the eye.

“Something on your mind, darling?” Your lips parted but no words came out. She raised an eyebrow, amused at your lack of response. She leaned in a little closer, her breath warm against your lips as she spoke.

“Use your words, sweetheart. You know I like it when you speak,” she purred, her hand on your stomach slowly moving up your torso, her fingertips grazing the underside of your bra. Her praise only urged you to pull her in for a kiss. Her lips were so soft but before you could enjoy it, a bolt of pain surged through your head, making you pull away and hiss in pain. She was taken by surprise by your sudden pull away, her eyes filled with concern as she looked at you.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” She asked, her hand that was on your stomach quickly moving up to gently rub your head, trying to soothe the pain that you were experiencing.

“Uh nothing,” you pulled away from her and started to stand up, “I’m going to get some water, would you like something to drink?” She furrowed her eyebrows, noticing your hesitance to answer her question. She knew she was half responsible for your pain.

“No, I’m fine, doll. Go ahead and get some water.”

“O-okay,” you walked into your kitchen, the voice in your head turned into two and they only grew louder. You picked up a glass and poured yourself some water. As you were about to take a sip of it, the voices suddenly screamed in your head and you dropped the glass cup, making it break.

A gasp escaped Agatha’s lips as she heard the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen. She quickly got up and rushed over to you, her eyes widening as she saw you on the ground with shattered glass around you.

“Y/n!” She said worriedly, immediately crouching down to your level and gently cupping your face in her hands, “Are you okay?”

“Agnes, it hurts! Please make it stop,” your hands gripped onto her purple cardigan. She could feel her heart ache as she watched you in pain, tears forming in your eyes. She gently pulled you into her lap, wrapping her arms around you protectively.

“Shh, I know it hurts, doll. Just try to relax for me,” Her fingers swirled around your temple as she began to chant what seemed like gibberish to you and soon the pain stopped. All your memories came back to you. The ropes of red magic surrounding your house and them engulfing you. You scrambled away from Agnes’ embrace, overwhelmed with everything that was happening all at once.

She let you scramble away, watching as you began to remember everything. She could tell that you were overwhelmed and panicking, so she stayed silent for a few moments, letting you process everything.

“Wanda…she did this,” you panted out and looked up, “Who are you?” She let out a soft sigh, knowing that this moment was going to happen eventually. She looked at you with a neutral expression on her face, noticing the fear in your eyes as you stared at her.

“You can call me Agatha. I’m…a witch,”

“No,” you scrambled further away from her until your back hit your counter, “Not another witch.” She slowly stood up and took a step closer to you, her hands held up in a calming gesture.

“I’m not going to hurt you, doll,” she said softly, keeping her distance from you for now.

“Don’t call me that and stay away from me!” You grabbed a knife and pointed it at her, “I have to get out of here,” you mumbled more to yourself than her. She stopped in her tracks, a small frown on her face as she watched you grab the knife. She knew that she was still stronger than you and could easily overpower you if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to scare you further so she remained where she was.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said firmly, her eyes flickering between the knife and your face, “Now, put the knife down, sweetheart. You’re perfectly safe with me.”

“Yeah right. You’re just like Wanda.” Her eyes narrowed at your words, a hint of irritation in her expression. She took another step closer to you, taking the knife from your grasp and closing the distance between you.

“I’m nothing like Wanda,” she said through gritted teeth, “She’s the one who trapped you in this shit town under a fake reality. I was only trying to break through her stupid hex. Truly a waste of power. But you,” she grasped your jaw, “You made me change my mind. You’re special and you’re not leaving me.”

“You’re fucking crazy!” You shoved her off and made a run for the door only for a purple magic rope making you trip. A smirk made its way to her face as you fell to the floor. The next thing you knew, you were bound to the ground, your wrists pinned to the floor by the magic ropes as well. You started to struggle against the restraints, trying to get away but it was all in vain. She slowly knelt down in front of you, grabbing your chin to force you to look at her once again.

“There’s no use fighting against them, doll. They’re strong and won’t break no matter how much you struggle.”

“I knew it. You’re truly just like her.” You spit on her face. She closed her eyes and let out a low growl as your spit landed on her face. She used her free hand to wipe it off before wrapping her hand around your throat.

“Careful, sweetheart,” she said in a low, dangerous tone, “I may not like it when you talk back to me, but I can’t deny that it’s turning me on right now.”

“Let me go, please?” She chuckled softly, her grip on your throat not loosening in the slightest.

“Oh, pet. You’re adorable when you beg. But I’m afraid I can’t let you go. Not now that I have you right where I want you,” she waved her hand and you were now on your bed, naked and tied to the headboard, making your eyes widened in terror. She slowly crawled on top of you, a satisfied smirk on her face as she took in the sight of you tied up and helpless underneath her. She straddled your hips, her hands roaming over your body, admiring every inch of you.

“Don’t touch me!” you writhed under her. She let out a taunting sound as she continued to run her hands over your body, ignoring your protests. Her touch was possessive and rough, as if she was claiming you as hers.

“You’re mine now, doll. I can touch you however I want.” Tears started to well in your eyes.

“Please just-“ you swallowed the lump in your throat, “don’t hurt me…” She softened slightly at the sight of your tears, her hand gently cupping your face as she leaned down and licked the tears that started to spill from your eyes.

“You’re so pretty when you cry, pet,” she cooed, “And I won’t hurt you…too bad.” You closed your eyes tightly as she started taking off her cardigan along with everything else and when she was done, she began to kiss down your jaw until she reached your ear.

“You will love me,” she whispered before she began chanting Latin, “Fac horologium contra. Serva quod perierat. Fac eam ama me quocunque pretio.“

“What- what are you doing?” She ignored your question and continued to chant a love spell.

“Reduc quod olim fuit meum. Omne pulchrum esse videtur.” You felt lightheaded like you were floating. When you opened your eyes again, you saw Agatha again, her forehead pressed against yours as she pounded into you. She had a look of intense focus on her face as she looked into your eyes, her hips moving at a steady pace. She could feel the effects of the spell working on you, the love and desire slowly filling your mind.

“Ag- Agatha?”

“Shh, it’s okay, pet. You completely mine now,” she answered breathlessly as she continued to thrust into you. Her eyes locked onto yours, a smirk on her face as she noticed the change in your expression from confusion to acceptance.

As you gained consciousness of your whole body, you began to feel the pleasure Agatha was giving you. You whimpered every time her cock rubbed against your g-spot. She smirked even more as she heard your whimpers, her pace increasing slightly as she leaned down to kiss and nip at your neck.

“There we go, doll. Just relax and let me take care of you,” she whispered against your skin.

“I…I am yours,” you gasped out.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” she purred, her hand gripping your hip tightly as she continued to pound into you.

“You’re all mine, and no one else’s. Your body, your mind, your soul. All mine to use as I please.”

“I think I’m gonna-“

“Come for me, pet,” she growled, her grip on your hip tightening even more as she continued to hit that spot inside you over and over again. She came along with you, spilling her load deep inside, finalizing her possession over you. She leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss as she rode out her orgasm, her tongue slipping into your mouth and dominating you completely.

“Humph…” Once she broke the kiss, she pulled out of you and laid down next to you, pulling you close against her body. She began to run her fingers through your hair, a satisfied smile on her face.

“You belong to me now, pet. All that’s left to do is take Wanda’s power. That way you and I can live happily ever after,” she said, watching as the reflection of her powers settled in your eyes.

“All yours~”

Taglist; @polaris-likethestar @wandasreallover @oh-no-bummer @phixiesworld @eliscannotdance @venomhimbo @aka-patsy @scoliobean @chlondykebar @marvelwomenarehot0 @mgruiz @daenerys713

[verstappenverse]

Under The Radar

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: The strain of secrecy begins to weigh on a hidden relationship

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Long-time writer and F1 fan, first-time poster (on this new account, side blog for now). I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to share any feedback or ask any questions. And if you have any requests, please send them my way!

Masterlist

The lights of Monaco glimmered outside the hotel suite’s window, a soft glow against the night sky. It had always been your sanctuary away from the cameras, the fans, the noise. Max leaned against the doorframe, watching you from across the room. You sat on the plush couch scrolling aimlessly through your phone, your mind clearly somewhere else.

It had been weeks now. Weeks of whispered conversations, stolen moments, and fleeting glances that no one else could catch. The secrecy had once felt thrilling, but now, it felt like a cage one you weren’t sure you could stay in any longer.

“Hey,” Max’s voice broke through the quiet. “You okay?”

You glanced up at him, your chest tightening. You weren’t sure how to explain it anymore. The late-night rendezvous, the pretending you were just friends… it was becoming too much. It wasn’t that your feelings had changed, but hiding that love pretending it didn’t exist was starting to tear you apart.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled though your tone betrayed you.

Max stepped forward, his brow furrowing as he crouched down in front of you. He tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes. “You don’t sound fine.”

You bit your lip, struggling to keep the emotions at bay, but the weight of it all was too much tonight. “Max…” you began, but the words caught in your throat. How could you tell him how lonely you were even when he was right there with you?

He reached for your hand, his touch gentle yet grounding. “Talk to me.”

Your chest rose with a deep, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

His grip tightened slightly, a flicker of panic crossing his blue eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… hiding. Pretending we’re nothing more than friends when we’re out there. It’s exhausting Max.” Your voice cracked, the rawness of your emotions surfacing. “It feels like we’re living half a life, and I’m starting to wonder if that’s all we’ll ever have.”

Max’s gaze softened as he sat next to you, pulling you close. “I know it’s hard,” he murmured, resting his chin atop your head. “But you know why we’re doing this. The media…they always manage to turn something amazing into something ugly.”

You pulled away slightly looking up at him, your eyes searching his. “But why does it have to be a secret? I don’t care about the media. I care about us. And it feels like… like I’m not even a part of your life when we’re out there.”

He winced, guilt flashing across his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like Max? Because I don’t know anymore,” you admitted, your voice small. You had never imagined feeling so distant from someone you loved so much.

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair as he considered his words. “I’m trying to protect you. If everyone knew, they’d never leave you alone, paparazzi, fans, the team… they’d pry into every part of our relationship. It would change everything.”

“But maybe that’s what needs to happen,” you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. “Maybe it’s time we stop hiding and face whatever comes together.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment neither of you spoke. You could see the internal struggle playing out in his mind. He was so used to being in control, used to protecting everything he cared about, but in doing so he was losing you.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought this was the best way to keep us happy. But if it’s hurting you…”

You reached up, cupping his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I don’t need you to keep me safe from the world, Max. I need you to let me in.”

He leaned into your touch closing his eyes as if grounding himself in the moment. When he opened them again there was a new resolve in his gaze. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide. If this is what you need then we’ll make it work. Together.”

Relief flooded through you, though a part of you still feared the consequences of stepping into the spotlight, but with Max by your side, maybe — just maybe — it wouldn’t be as overwhelming as you thought.

“Thank you,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. “I just want to be with you, Max. No more hiding.”

He smiled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “No more hiding,” he promised.

As you sat there together, the weight on your chest began to lift. It wouldn’t be easy, there would be challenges ahead, scrutiny from every angle, but for the first time in weeks you felt hopeful, and most importantly you didn’t feel alone.